


Your Affectionate Laurens

by SpaceVinci



Series: King's High School [3]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Have any anecdotal stories about the late 18th and early 19th centuries? Please tell me., Homophobia, I apologize to any John Dickinson fans, I made up John's siblings' names for a number of reasons - Freeform, I needed an annoying fuckboy and chose his basically at random, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Panic Attacks, one is that I in no way wanted to deal with the sad fate of James Laurens - Freeform, so I guess Martha Laurens Ramsay just doesn't exist anymore. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5683411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceVinci/pseuds/SpaceVinci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a few exceptions, John has never really been attracted to girls. He'd be lying, though, if he claimed it was the boy with red hair and a mouth that never stopped running that made him realize it; first, there had been the one with the high forehead and the slight Southern drawl.</p><p>---</p><p>Prequel piece to Cheaters Never Prosper, which you don't have to read first. No matter how much time goes by between updates, I promise you that I have not abandoned this piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turtle Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your name. So I can stop mentally referring to you as 'Forehead Guy.'" He winces inwardly at the realization that he just said that out loud.
> 
> "Excuse me?"
> 
> "Not that there's any thing wrong with your forehead. It's a nice forehead. Very regal." Nope, this conversation is taking a turn for the worse.
> 
> "Um."
> 
> "What I'm trying to say is that I like your forehead, but not enough to continue referring to you by it."

John "Dick" Dickinson will not shut up, and it's driving John Laurens insane.

Last year, at his old school in South Carolina, it would be a cold day in Hell before John let someone so idiotic keep talking without interrupting them. Then again, Mr. Gage's geography class may as well be Hell, and the December chill is finally setting in. So, keeping in mind his promise to his dad that he'd try to be on good behavior, John contents himself with complaining to whomever happens to be next to him. On his left is James Madison, so that's a no-go. John has little doubt that James would be down for a session of "Let's Bash on Dick" (everybody seems to be), but the problem remains of actually initiating conversation. From what John can tell from his two months at King's High School so far, James is shy to the point of painful. He opts instead on the boy to his right.

"Hey," he whispers, leaning towards him slightly.

The boy turns, brow raised (quite a feat, seeing as how high his forehead is naturally).

"Is Dickinson ever going to shut up?"

Forehead Guy cracks a smile. "Oh, is he still at it? I zoned out."

John grins. "You haven't missed much. Last I checked, I think he was trying to convince Mr. Gage that any powerful women in the government are actually space aliens."

"I feel like I should be surprised, but I'm not."

"That's not comforting."

Forehead Guy laughs. "You'll get used to it eventually."

"Also not comforting," John grouses, making a face. "Are we ever going to actually learn anything in this course?"

"What, with Mr. Gage as our teacher? I doubt it."

John groans.

Forehead Guy quirks an eyebrow. "Why? You planning on doing anything with your life that requires a competent geography course?"

John shrugs. "I guess not."

"And furthermore –" Dick continues, undeterred by the room's growing annoyance.

"I think that's quite enough, Mr. Dickinson," Mr. Gage interrupts, and John almost cheers.

"About time," Forehead Guy breathes in relief.

John offers him a lopsided smile. "I thought you zoned out."

"Yeah," Forehead Guy responds, "but that doesn't mean I couldn't feel the stupidity rolling in from the front of the classroom. I feel like I need to, I dunno, cleanse myself or something." His bangs fall forwards a bit onto his forehead, which, yeah, okay, ruins that nickname.

"Hey, I never got your name," John notes.

"Hm?"

"Your name. So I can stop mentally referring to you as 'Forehead Guy.'" He winces inwardly at the realization that he just said that out loud.

"Excuse me?"

"Not that there's any thing wrong with your forehead. It's a nice forehead. Very regal." Nope, this conversation is taking a turn for the worse.

"Um."

"What I'm trying to say is that I like your forehead, but not enough to continue referring to you by it."

Forehead Guy stares at John for a second. Then his lips twitch into another smile. "Francis Kinloch. I'd shake your hand, but Mr. Gage would probably notice and make a big fuss about it, thus accosting our ears with another 15 minutes of nonsense."

John grins. "John Laurens."

"You're the new kid, right?"

John's grin falters. "Uh, yeah."

"Cool. Where ya from?"

"South Carolina."

Francis's smile widens. "Oh, man, no way! I was born in Charleston!"

"Hey! Me, too!"

"Is there something you gentlemen would like to share with the class?" Mr. Gage demands. John starts. He had sort of forgotten that they were in class.

"Ooh! The new kid was _flirting_ with Francis!" Dick stage-whispers.

The guy in front of James, a boy with messy, sandy hair, makes an exasperated noise. "That didn't even make contextual sense! _Nothing you have said has made any sense_!"

Mr. Gage scowls. "Mr. Hale, be quiet."

"You let Dick talk for a solid twenty minutes about… I honestly don't even know what!"

Mr. Gages jaw twitches. "I am very close to giving you a detention, Mr. Hale."

Hale looks like he wants to say something, but calms down a bit when the boy next to him leans in and murmurs, "Deep breath, Pythias."

"Aw, Dick, are you jealous?" Francis taunts. "I didn't know you cared!"

Mr. Gage's scowl deepens. He turns sharply back to the board and continues the lesson (or, at least, tries to).

"You know I wasn't flirting, right?" John whispers nervously to Francis.

Francis gives him a strange look. "Obviously not. Dick was just being obnoxious."

John nods. "Right. Yeah."

"And anyway," Francis adds, "if you actually were flirting, you weren't doing a very good job of it."

John isn't exactly sure why the statement bothers him, but Francis must notice his frown, because he adds, "'Forehead Guy?'"

John feels a blush creep up his neck. "Oh, that. Look, I'm sorry, I come up with weird nicknames for people when I don't know their real names."

"What does it matter? You weren't flirting anyway, right?" There's something almost suggestive in Francis's smile.

"Right," John affirms, unsure why the conversation is making him so uncomfortable. "Of course not. I'm straight."

Francis rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay, buddy, I get it. "No homo" and everything. Move on."

John shifts awkwardly and returns his attention to the board. Mr. Gage has drawn a relatively detailed map which is probably pertinent to the lesson, but John is so lost at this point that he can't tell. After a minute or so, he feels a pencil poke him in the side.

"You said you had weird nicknames for people," Francis reminds him, lowering the pencil. "Got any examples?"

John racks his brain. "Uh… Hale, or Pythias, or whatever his name is?" He whispers as quietly as he can. "The guy in front of James?"

Francis peeks over discreetly. "Who, Nathan?"

"I guess. I've been mentally calling him 'Done with Everything'."

Francis snorts, then claps a hand over his mouth and peeks around to make sure no one heard. It's oddly cute. "Accurate," he chuckles.

"And the girl across the room there?" John continues, encouraged. "I've been calling her 'If Looks Could Kill'."

"That's Angelica," Francis informs him, eyes mirthful despite his solemn tone. "You're entirely correct, but do not tell her to her face if you want to live."

"Noted," John murmurs, brow raised.

"Hey," Francis muses, "I should come up with a nickname for you."

"Why? You already know my name."

Francis shrugs. "So what? I think I'm gonna call you… Turtle Man."

"'Turtle Man'?"

Francis points to the edges of John's notebook, where John has doodled a couple turtles and some flowers. "They're pretty good, by the way."

"Huh?"

"The turtles. They're pretty good, even though they look kinda weird."

"Oh. Thanks. And they're soft-shell turtles. They look like that."

Francis nods. "Cool."

The bell rings for second period, and Mr. Gage sinks into his chair, raking his hands through his hair. The chalk stick he forgot to put down leaves a yellow trail behind it.

"What do you have next?" Francis asks John as he gathers up his things.

John roots around in his pockets before emerging with a neatly folded schedule. "English. How about you?"

Francis sticks out his tongue. "Literary Analysis with Mr. Adams," he responds sourly. "Who do you have?"

"Mr. Bentham."

"Oh, man, lucky. He's pretty cool. Mr. Adams… okay, imagine in one of Franklin's crazed experiments, he accidentally gave a potato a decently high IQ and the ability to talk. Then, not knowing what else to do with it, he set it loose with teaching credentials. That's Mr. Adams."

"Wow," John allows, giving a low whistle.

"Yeah. The worst Mr. Bentham does is get overexcited about the _Iliad_."

"The _Iliad_ is pretty exciting," John protests.  
Francis shakes his head, grinning. "You, Turtle Man," he concludes, hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, "are a nerd. See you later!"  
With that, he turns to go, leaving John frowning in confusion and feeling oddly warm.

* * *

When John gets to English, Tom Paine ushers him over to the seat he's saved.

"Mr. Bentham says we're not doing persuasive essays this year," he informs John bitterly.

"Oh, you poor thing," John responds without much sympathy. John has been friends with Tom since the first couple days of school, and in the few months between then and now, Tom has already managed to receive several detentions for writing unprompted persuasive essays and attempting to present them in various classes.

John sits down. "Hey, do you know Francis Kinloch?"

Tom blinks. "His name is Francis."

"Yes."

"I feel like that already says a lot about him."

"…why?"

"I dunno. Just… Francis. That doesn't have a connotation to you?"

"Uh, no."

"Whatever. Why are you asking?"

John feels that annoying warmth creeping up his neck again. Maybe he should go see Ms. Pitcher. "Oh, no reason. I met him last period in geography. He seems like an interesting person. He has a pretty high forehead. Not that that makes him interesting, those were unrelated statements."

Tom raises an eyebrow, then widens his eyes and mouths an exaggerated, " _okay_."

Mr. Bentham, previously busy with the papers on his desk, looks up at the clock.

"Alright, time to start. Take out your books."

The class is reading _Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe_. It's a pretty good book, and John welcomes the distraction from his conversation with Tom. John isn't usually prone to rambling, but he can't seem to filter what comes out of his mouth today. He feels like punching himself as he mentally replays calling Francis 'Forehead Guy' to his face. And wonderful, now his face feels warm again. Maybe he _should_ go see Ms. Pitcher.

"Our running theme for this book has been the modern views expressed and approached," Mr. Bentham reminds the class. He shuffles through the papers on his desk again. "Er, what did we talk about last class?"

A girl in the front row raises her hand.

"Eleanor?"

"We were discussing the racial views in the South displayed in both time periods portrayed in the book. I believe we also mentioned how racism affected Jasper and Artis differently."

Ah, racism in the South. John has witnessed plenty of that. He remembers his father insisting the family keep absolutely all valuables under lock and key when the black cleaning lady came and, when pressed for a reason, only responding, "Well, you know what _they're_ like."

"Ah, yes, good. Thank you," Mr. Bentham flicks through the papers again. "Today I wanted to tackle the subject of the relationship between Idgie and Ruth. Now, they are often described as having a "very strong friendship," although frankly, that's quite an understatement." He puts air quotes around 'very strong friendship'.

John swallows. The room feels just a bit too hot, a bit too small.

Eleanor raises her hand again. "I was under the impression that they were in a romantic relationship," she informs Mr. Bentham. She flicks through her book, which is littered with sticky tabs. "I can't find it right now, but it specifically says at one point that Idgie has a crush on Ruth. And in chapter 27, Ruth clearly realizes that she's in love with Idgie."

John swallows again. It's significantly harder this time. He wonders if he ate something weird with breakfast this morning, because the room definitely feels like it's shrinking.

Mr. Bentham smiles. "Very well observed, Eleanor. Yes, the relationship between Idgie and Ruth is likely a romantic one." He says something else afterwards, but John isn't really paying attention any more. He forces his hand upwards.

"Yes, John. Are you alright?"

"May I go to the nurse?" John chokes out.

"Yes, yes, of course, go."

John clambers out of his chair and towards the door. He's not really sure how he makes it to Ms. Pitcher's office; he's focused more on breathing than walking.

Ms. Pitcher looks up as he staggers in.

"Goodness, dear, what's wrong?"

"I – I can't –" he gestures helplessly at his throat.

She points to a chair near her desk. "Sit down."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

"Is it an asthma attack? Allergy?"

He shakes his head to each.

"Panic attack?"

He pauses, then shrugs.

"Okay. Just focus on calming down. Think of something happy."

His brain's knee-jerk response (although he's not sure why) is to think of Francis calling him 'Turtle Man,' which for some reason only makes breathing harder. _Traitor,_ he thinks at his brain. Which, come to think of it, is kind of a strange and paradoxical thing to do. Is his brain talking to itself? Is he talking to himself? In any case, the situation is a better train of thought than the previous one, and he soon regains oxygen-intake.

"Are you okay?" Ms. Pitcher asks.

"I think so."

"What's your name?"

"John Laurens."

"Oh, yes, you're the new student."

He's getting a bit tired of being known as "the new kid," but he nods nevertheless.

"Have you ever had a panic attack before?"

"No. Not that I can remember, anyway."

"Do you know what might have triggered this one?"

He thinks for a moment, but comes up empty-handed. "No. Sorry."

"It's alright, dear," she soothes. "What were you doing before it happened?"

"I was in English class. We were discussing _Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe_."

She smiles. "That's a good book."

He returns the smile hesitantly. "Yeah."

"Did one of the discussion questions upset you?"

"No, not really."

"Is it possible that one of them may have hit too close to home about something?"

Could that be it? It doesn't seem likely. It wasn't thinking about his father's idiotic white superiority, he's accustomed to that. Maybe it was the question about… _Abort,_ he thinks, as his breathing becomes labored again.

"No," he insists firmly.

The look in Ms. Pitcher's eye suggests that she doesn't fully believe him, but she lets it slide.

"Do you want to lie down for a bit?" She offers. "Or are you good to go back to class?"

"I think I'll go back to class."

"I'll write you a note."

That done, he trudges back to English, slides the note onto Mr. Bentham's desk, and sneaks back into his seat.

"You okay, dude?" Tom asks.

"Yeah, yeah, fine. What did I miss?"

" _Fried Green Tomatoes_ is about a couple of lesbians. That's it. That's all you missed."

"Wait, but didn't Ruth marry a guy?"

"Yeah, but she sure as Hell didn't love him."

"Fair," John concedes. "But homosexuality was illegal in the '30s, right?"

"Okay, one?" Tom ticks up a finger. "That technically only applied to dudes. And two? That didn't stop a helluva lot of people."

"Why not?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why intentionally do something if you know the law's going to be after you if anyone finds out?"

Tom shrugs. "The law would be on my ass if it knew how much I illegally download, but that's not stopping me or quite a lot of other people."

"I don't think that quite equates," John protests.

Tom gives him a look. "What do you want me to tell you, dude? Because I refuse to say "they do it for love" with a straight face."

"Boys," Mr. Bentham calls, "I would appreciate if you didn't talk to each other in class."

"Sorry, Mr. Bentham," Tom apologizes.

John focuses on drawing another turtle in his notebook. Tom's words wheedle their way into his head, playing on repeat:

_They do it for love. They do it for love. They do it for love._

* * *

John mentally amends his comparison of Mr. Gage's geography class to Hell; obviously he'd forgotten about PE with Coach Steuben. There's a reason everyone calls him "the Baron".

John is pretty sure that if he has to do one more lap or another squat, his legs will give out. He's also pretty sure that the Baron would make him keep going anyway.

The other kids have developed survival skills. The jocks basically just deal with it as it comes. Nathan is apparently a freaking gazelle, so he doesn't seem to have a problem with the running. John has dubbed Benny Walker "The Baron's Little Angel" because of his cherubic looks and magical ability to make the Baron slightly less angry. William North's method of coping with the horror that is PE mostly includes not-so-subtly staring at Benny. Every time the Baron curses at the class in French (which is seemingly half of his vocabulary, the other half being what sounds like German swearing), some guy with bright red hair responds in the same language.

The last one seems like the least effective to John, but soon enough, the Baron gets so annoyed that he retreats to his office, abandoning the class to the weight room. Ginger Loudmouth, as John has decided to call the French-speaking guy, immediately locates a piece of paper and a pen and scurries off to a corner to write.

"Turtle Man!" a voice exclaims, and John nearly drops the weights he's holding.

"Francis! Hi." John flushes, acutely aware of how mismatched his Race for the Cure shirt and green shorts are.

"Do you need help?" Francis asks.

"With what?"

Francis grins sheepishly. "Alright, man, I'm gonna level with you. I came over here because you don't look like you know what you're doing."

John sets the weights down. "I know exactly what I'm doing. The exercises are specifically engineered to maximize –"

"Yeah, okay, you sound like you're reading from a textbook. Pick up the weights again and show me what you were doing."

John obliges. Francis watches for a second, then reaches out and grabs John's wrists.

"Okay, man, stop. I think I get what you're trying to do, but your form _sucks_."

John swallows. Francis is still holding onto his wrists, and it's making it really hard to focus. He looks down awkwardly, absently noting that Francis has very nice legs.

"Since when are you a workout expert?" He mumbles.

"Since I pulled something in my leg last year effing up squats." He moves John's arms a bit. "Try it again."

John huffs, but complies. "Oh. Wow."

"Feel better?"

"I – yes, actually. Thanks."

"No problem. Consider it my way of stalling until the bell rings."

John checks his watch. "You have about two minutes left."

Francis sits down on one of the workout benches. "20 questions. I'm thinking of an animal."

"I don't think you're supposed to tell me that right off the bat."

Francis waves the comment aside. "Too late. Start asking."

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

Francis blinks. "Um… I think so?"

"Is it a mammal?"

"No."

"Reptile?"

"…no."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes? Also, I'm counting that as a question."

"Amphibian?"

"Pretty sure."

"It's a turtle."

Francis sticks out his tongue. "I went easy on you. Return the courtesy or don't."

"Should I make you guess a category?"

"Nah, we don't have much time."

"Uh, alright." John sits down next to Francis. "I'm thinking of a… vegetable."

"Is it green?"

"Yes."

"Do health nuts and or my mother think it's a thing that can be turned into a smoothie, when, in fact, it cannot?"

"It can be a smoothie."

"Wrong answer. No vegetable can be turned into a smoothie by a sane human being."

"Okay, _I_ don't think it makes a bad smoothie."

"Yeah, but you're weird," Francis teases, poking him in the side.

"Just keep asking questions," John scowls.

"Is it less than six letters long?"

"Yes."

"Less than five?"

"Yes."

"Less than four?"

"I'm sensing a pattern."

"Answer the question, Turtle Man."

"No, it's not less than four."

"Is it kale?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my god," Francis moans, "oh good Lord, Turtle Man, no, kale definitely is not meant to be a smoothie. In fact, kale isn't meant for anything except making chips to use as bait in traps to catch wild vegans."

John raises an eyebrow. "Do you make a habit of catching wild vegans?"

Francis cracks a grin. "Not this time of year. Too cold for hunting season. They're all too busy with their soy vanilla bean lattes. Well, most of them, anyway. What are you doing away from the pack, Johnny boy?"

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not vegan."

"You willingly eat kale."

"Kale is good!"

"Whatever, man."

The bell rings, and Francis heads towards the door.

"See ya 'round, Turtle Man!" He calls over his shoulder.

John puts his weights away and heads to the locker room to get changed. Tom is waiting for him outside of the lunchroom when he gets out.

"Dude, take a wild guess what Dr. Warren did today."

"What?" John asks absently, digging around in his pockets for his lunch money.

"He gave us the "don't do drugs" speech."

John makes a noise that implies he's listening as he finally locates the folded bills.

"…and then proceeded to tell us how to safely do drugs."

"Wait, what?"

Tom smirks. "Okay, well, not _exactly_. He was like, "don't do drugs, but if you're gonna do drugs anyway, especially don't do this," and then he talked about overdosing and needle sharing. Also, he wrote down a list of drugs that would screw us up the least. Like, "if you fuck up, don't fuck up too bad," or something."

"Did he tell you about the time he accidentally got high and then tried to operate a surgery on a running faucet?"

"No? What?"

"Yeah, he actually told us that story during a class that was supposed to be on why we can't get a vaccine for colds."

"This information makes me unreasonably happy."

"I'm about to make your mood even better," John promises, catching a whiff of the food in the lunchroom. "Today's pizza day."

Tom raises his hands and lifts his face to the ceiling in mock prayer. "All is well in the world."

* * *

John smiles as he enters the classroom. Art class, with only ten students including himself, is the only class where John knows everybody's names. Mr. Goya nods him over to the table, and John waves a silent hello (Goya's deaf, so speaking to him is pretty much pointless).

"John!" Maria Cosway calls, waving him over to the table. John grins, claiming his seat in between Henry Raeburn and Jonny Flaxman and across from John "Bull" Trumbull. They don't have assigned seats, but everyone sits at the same places, anyway, so Mr. Goya already has John's sketch for the current watercolor project waiting at his place.

"You look happy," John comments.

Maria beams. "Oh, it's nothing," she claims. Her phone buzzes, and she scrambles to answer the text. Bull smirks.

"It's Thomas. He keeps sending her texts and she's _way_ more excited than she's letting on. I'm telling you, I could be a professional matchmaker."

Maria sticks her tongue out. "Thomas and I aren't a couple anymore."

"Yeah," Johnny interjects, "but you might as well be. You text each other all the time, and you _always_ blush when he texts you."

"I do not!" She shrieks, slapping his arm, but her rosy cheeks betray her. She tugs her beanie farther over her hair and crosses her arms. "Shut up. You do the same thing when anyone mentions Achilles and Patroclus."

True to her words, Johnny pinks slightly. "That's not fair! You can't change the topic just to tease me back."

"Says who?" She gestures broadly at his paper. "You're literally drawing them."

"Oh yeah?" He counters. "Well, you're drawing… a big snake."

Maria scoffs. "It's a _hydra_ , you dummy."

Will Blake perks his head up at the other end of the table. "Who said hydra?"

Maria points at herself. Will holds up a hand behind Cat Boucher for a high-five, and Maria obliges.

"Mythological creatures for the win!" He crows. "I'm doing a dragon."

"Nice," she grins.

"Hey, John," Georgie Cumberland asks, "aren't you drawing that huge turtle thing from the Greek myths?"

"Uh, no. This is just a regular turtle," John corrects.

Cat frowns. "There was a turtle in the Greek myths?"

Georgie nods. "Sciron had a huge turtle that ate people. It was pretty sweet."

Next to him, Tommy Stothard tilts his head. "Why do you know that?"

"Percy Jackson."

Will rolls his eyes. "Of course."

John glances around the table. On the side across from him sits Will, Cat, Maria, Bull, and Elisabeth Lebrun.

Will is finishing up his sketch of a dragon, his blue eyes shining excitedly. There are pencil marks all over his hands. Next to him, John can't quite make out what Cat is doing yet. She keeps tucking her curly hair behind her ear and leaning over to help Will with some of the smaller details on his painting.

Maria is halfway through a frankly terrifying depiction of a hydra weaving its way through the colosseum. Her yellow beanie does a decent job of keeping her thick, curly hair out of her face, but a few strands invariably fall into her line of vision, and she blows them away.

Bull is working on a perceptive shot of his history class. Either his history class is a lot more exciting than John's, or he's exaggerated the scene immensely, because the people in the picture look like they're either actively participating in a brawl, or about to start one.

Elisabeth has already finished her sketch and is up to using the watercolors, painting in a picture of herself wearing a hat with a huge feather plume. The flower crown perched on top of her curly blond hair contrasts the concentrated expression on her face as she carefully selects a color scheme.

On John's side of the table sits Tommy, Georgie, Henry, himself, and Johnny. Maria likes to point out that everyone goes by something ending with an "ee" sound except John, but she can't start calling him "Johnny" without getting mixed up with Johnny Flaxman.

Tommy is sketching illustrations for some song lyrics he's selected. John hasn't been paying much attention to the guy's paper, because every time he looks over, he's distracted by Tommy's sideburns. He's spent more time than he cares to admit trying to decide whether they're best described as "ridiculous" or "rather impressive."

Georgie is drawing a unicorn. Will teased him endlessly at first about being a brony, but even he had to admit the sketch is pretty good. Georgie's pudgy face flushes a similar shade to his hair whenever anyone tells him that.

Henry has a sketch going of his crush, Anne Edgar. He's hoping that if he does well and then shows it to her, she'll go out with him. His thick eyebrows are scrunched together in concentration.

John's painting consists of two turtles in a pond, surrounded by some water lilies that are going to look very nice with watercolors. He muses that Francis chose his nickname well. John honestly loves animals in general, but he has an affinity towards turtles.

Johnny may or may not be drawing low-key porn. His picture depicts Achilles and Patroclus in a rather compromising position. He blushes and hides behind his conveniently-shoulder-length hair every time he's confronted about it, but usually has a response on the tip of his tongue, ranging from, "They were totally in love," to, "Lots of classic Greek art is in this style," to, "Shut up."

The ten of them sketch, paint, and banter for the rest of class, and John groans when the bell rings. On the one hand, it's _finally_ last period, but on the other hand, while Mr. Washington is a pretty cool teacher, John barely knows anyone in the class.

Thankfully, History goes by quickly. The most interesting thing that happens is Joe Müller making excited squeaking noises occasionally, because apparently he's really excited about the ancient Greeks, and the discovery that Ginger Loudmouth is in the class, taking the chance to talk at any given opportunity.

John rubs his eyes as he waits for his dad at carpool. He really, _really_ needs a nap after the day he's had.


	2. Of Letters and Lesbians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John smiles. "I'm going to finish high school with honors and go to a prestigious med school somewhere in Europe. I'll be wildly successful –"
> 
> "– find the girl of your dreams," Francis interjects, "have 2.5 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence, and cure every disease known to mankind?"
> 
> "Ha. Something like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about naming John's siblings:
> 
> In real life, Hester would be Martha, Andre would be Henry Jr., Elias would be James, and Mary would... still be Mary. Also there would be larger age gaps. But James Laurens died by drowning while John was in loco parentis, and I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to forget that fact. So while I try and keep most names accurate in this fic, and literally everyone mentioned was a real historical figure, I took some liberties with the Laurens kids to avoid horrible angst and instead named them after some of their ancestors.
> 
> Also if I'm being honest I am sick of the names Martha and James at this point because everyone in history had the same 10 goshdarn names.

John is perfectly fine until he walks into first period math and sees Francis. Not that seeing Francis has anything to do with his sudden racing heartbeat and flushed face. It just happened to be a coinciding event. John thankfully doesn't have to deal with his competing desires to sit next to Francis and be as far away as possible, because Mr. Paul Jones has assigned seats. So now John has a wall on one side and Sybil Ludington, grumbling about a detention Mr. Paul Jones gave someone that may or may not have been necessary, on the other.

"What is his _deal_?" She hisses.

John grunts, unsure whether or not he was meant to respond.

"I mean," she continues, "no one really knows his story. I heard he came here to escape a murder charge in Scotland."

"What."

She nods. "There's no concrete _proof_ , of course, but I wouldn't exactly be surprised."

"But… why here, of all places?"

The look in her eye is grave, but twinkles with conspiracy. "No one knows. But theoretically, that's why he has two last names."

John frowns. "He added one on to hide?"

"Exactly."

"That actually sounds like a really stupid plan."

Sybil shrugs. "Yeah, but it's fun to theorize."

John spends the rest of class eyeing Mr. Paul Jones warily.

When the bell rings for second period, Sybil waits for John at the door.

"You have Franklin for science, right?" She confirms.

"Yes."

She grins. "Nice. He's the best chemistry teacher."

"I know," John laughs. "I'm pretty sure the entire curriculum involves blowing things up and setting things on fire."

"Isn't that, like, the entire point of chemistry?"

John laughs again and makes his way to science. True to his prediction, Franklin has an array of materials out on the desk that look pretty flammable. John makes his way over to his lab partner, David Humphreys, and sits down.

David doesn't notice him at first, too focused on a doodle of a sheep dressed as superman, but when he does look up, he makes an awkward noise and covers the paper.

"I was drawing something totally normal," he insists at John's raised eyebrow.

"Super Sheep. Looks cool."

Franklin is at his desk, scribbling something. He doesn't appear to notice that everyone has finished filing into the classroom. Something lands in front of John, making him jump. He looks down to see a folded piece of paper. Opening it up, he reads,

Wanna take bets on how long before Franklin notices we're here?

-Francis Kinloch

John scribbles back a response.

Not particularly. It could be anywhere from a minute to never.

-John Laurens

Holy crap your handwriting is beautiful.

-Francis Kinloch

Thanks. My middle school teachers used to give me grief about crossing my t's and x's with other letters, but I kept doing it anyway. Guess I just liked how it looked.

-John Laurens

Is that what a capital G is supposed to look like?

-Francis Kinloch

...yes?

-John Laurens

My teachers kind of gave up before we got to capital letters. Don't judge.

-Francis Kinloch

Do you want me to write you up a sheet of capital letters in script?

-John Laurens

Would you? Also, what do z's look like?

-Francis Kinloch

John laughs quietly and starts writing the list. He's almost to z when there's a loud popping noise from the front of the class. John jerks his head up to see Franklin holding an empty flask and wearing safety goggles (on his head, not his eyes, effectively defeating the purpose) and a huge grin.

"Hello, class," he says. "Today we're going to make things explode."

Franklin spends the rest of class doing just that, alternately explaining the science behind the reactions and giggling. At one point, he makes a joke that John only catches the tail end of, but from what he can tell, it was decently inappropriate. John hears a quiet snicker somewhere off to his left. It takes him a moment to figure out the source, mostly because he's never heard James laugh before. He just sort of assumed it wasn't a thing that happened.

Did you just laugh?

-John Laurens

He sends the note before he can inform himself how decidedly-not-socially-acceptable the idea is, and raises his brow in surprise when he actually gets a response.

You have weirdly nice handwriting.

-[indecipherable squiggle]

…was that your signature?

-John Laurens

This is, in fact, James. I get enough crap about my signature from my friends already, so not a word.

-Lawn Merriot

No, that's okay, so long as I sent it to the right person.

-John Laurens

You did. The question remains of why you sent it in the first place.

-Juuu Meivion

You laughed.

-John Laurens

Yes. Last I checked, that's not illegal.

-Jawn Madxion

I just honestly wasn't sure you _could_ laugh.

-John Laurens

I laugh all the time. Just, only around friends. Or if something is really funny.

-Jours Meidiron

Like Franklin making a dick joke?

-John Laurens

Obviously.

-Jallul Huuriou

John smiles and revises his opinion of James; the kid may be super shy, but he also has an amusingly dry sense of humor and the capacity to appreciate dick jokes.

John remembers to send Francis the note with the script letters a couple minutes before class ends.

Thanks! :)

-Francis Kinloch

* * *

The rest of John's school day is okay, if not terrifically exciting. He has health with Dr. Warren after science, which is actually one of his favorite subjects. John's shooting for med school one day, and he spends most health classes with two other kids sharing the same goal: Peggy Schuyler and James McHenry. Collectively, they're often the only people in the class who know the answers.

After health, John goes to eat lunch with Tom. Francis shows up 15 minutes later to join them, and Tom keeps subtly trying to prove his point about the name "Francis." He fails miserably, as evident by the fact that John has no clue what his point _is_.

At one point, John makes an offhanded comment about wishing that Franklin would explain the scientific concepts more in depth.

"Why?" Francis inquires. "You planning on doing anything with your life that requires a competent science course?"

"Yes, actually," John admits.

Francis raises his eyebrows. "Really? What?"

John smiles. "I'm going to finish high school with honors and go to a prestigious med school somewhere in Europe. I'll be wildly successful –"

"– find the girl of your dreams," Francis interjects, "have 2.5 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence, and cure every disease known to mankind?"

"Ha. Something like that."

" _Francis_ ," Tom murmurs pointedly.

Francis gives him a strange look.

After lunch, John has French, a class he shares with both Ginger Loudmouth and If Looks Could Kill, who spend most of the period either flirting or fighting in French. John honestly can't tell which. He starts doodling something in his notebook, not sure what it is at first. It's basically just a face. A face with a really high forehead. Hm, better fix that. He draws some swooping, wavy hair, with bangs to cover the forehead a bit. It's not until his eyes automatically fill in the colors — brown hair and gray-green eyes — that he recognizes who he's drawn: Francis. He contemplates ripping the paper out and crumpling it into a ball, but eventually decides to leave it.

John’s last class of the day is Literary Analysis. He has Mr. Bentham again, who somehow finds articles to analyze that are actually interesting. Today, he splits the class up into partners and asks them to discuss a piece of their choice from the packet they got last time.

John ended up paired with Done with Everything. His name is actually Nathan Hale, John discovers.

“Is Pythias your middle name or something?” John asks in confusion.

Nathan scrunches his eyebrows together. “What? No, why?”

“In geography the other day, I heard the guy next to you call you 'Pythias'.”

“In geo– oh, you mean Ben! No, Pythias is a nickname.”

John smirks. “Is his nickname Damon?”

Nathan looks pleasantly surprised. “Yeah, it is. You got the reference right off the bat.”

“Damon and Pythias, the Friendship is Magic myth. It’s not that obscure,” John insists.

Nathan makes a face. “You’d be surprised.”

“Do you have a preference which paragraph we do?”

“Actually, yes.” Nathan flips through the packet. “There’s this speech by Susan B. Anthony that I really liked. Do you mind if we do that one?”

“Sounds good.”

It turns out that Nathan is rather amiable, which surprises John a bit, because he’s only ever seen him interact by yelling at Mr. Gage. While Nathan’s voice tends to get kind of shrill when he’s upset, he’s not half bad to listen to when he’s calmed down.

“Using the quote from the preamble counts as logos, right?” John checks.

Nathan nods. “Or possibly ethos. American pride and all that. And she follows it up with some well-placed repetition.”

“She uses a nice blend of logos and ethos,” John comments.

“Absolutely.”

The speech is concise, and Nathan and John are soon finished.

John looks over the page. “Do we have to write something?”

“Nope. Just discuss. Which we basically did along the way, so we’re done. I mean, we could write something…”

“No, really, that’s okay.”

Nathan laughs.

“Hey, are you on track?” John wonders.

Nathan rolls his eyes. “Have you been talking to Sybil?”

“No. Well, not about that, anyway. I just noticed you were ridiculously fast in PE the other day.”

Nathan shakes his head. “I don’t have time for track, regardless of what Sybil tells you. She’s been trying to get me to join for a while now.”

“Why don’t you have time? Studying?”

“Well, that, too. But I also have football practice on Mondays, and wrestling on Fridays, because this school has super weird scheduling with sports, and on Thur– never mind. Seriously, though, I’m packed.”

John offers a low whistle. “I get the picture. Football _and_ wrestling?”

“Yup. I couldn’t choose which I liked more, and I needed at least one to round out my curriculum. Debate team won’t get me everywhere.”

“Wow. What don’t you do?”

“Honestly? Have free time.” Nathan leans back in his chair. “So what about you? What do you do?”

“Does fighting count?” The joke is in poor taste, and he regrets making it pretty much immediately.

“Karate?”

“Uh, no, I just got into a bunch of fights at my last school. I was… going through some shit, and I had a lot of pent-up rage, and, well, I fought.”

“Words? Fists?”

“Yes.”

Nathan laughs. “You remind me of a guy on debate team.”

The bell rings, and Nathan gathers up his things.

“See you later, John.”

“Yeah. Bye, Nathan."

* * *

When John gets home, he immediately goes to his room to do his homework. With Winter Break around the corner, half of his teachers have given up on the curriculum, while the other half are scrambling to finish everything up before the students go off and forget it all. All in all, it amounts to just as much homework as any other time of the year. He's just finishing up a chapter of _Fried Green Tomatoes_ when his dad calls him to dinner.

"Coming!"

Henry, along with John's siblings, is waiting for him when comes down. Mary, in seventh grade, in talking animatedly about her day at school. Elias is discussing something with Andre, and both of them are acting far more conspiratorial than 12- and 13-year-olds have any right being. Hester, a shy freshman, is picking quietly at her rice.

John sits down and serves himself.

"How was your day, Jack?" Henry inquires.

"Okay," John replies.

Henry frowns. "You don't sound too happy."

John shrugs. "I'm fine."

"Still missing South Carolina?"

Of course John is still missing South Carolina. They haven't even been in New York for half a year. John has gone from being "that angry guy whose mother died or something" to "the new guy" so fast it makes his head spin. He knows that Henry is trying to move on from South Carolina as fast as he can: too many painful memories of John's mother, Eleanor. John wishes that Henry would stop pretending that everyone else wanted to move on so quickly, though.

"I guess," he mumbles.

"I talked to Alexander," Henry offers. Alexander Garden has been a family friend in for as long as John can remember, but since lives in South Carolina, John hasn't seen him or his kids in a while.

"How is he?" John asks. He really means to ask how his kids are, but it's usually best to let Henry lead the conversation.

"He's doing well," Henry answers mildly. "Shame about Margaret, though."

John stiffens. Margaret is Alexander's oldest daughter. She's a freshman now, if John remembers correctly. He's terrified of what might have happened to her.

"What do you mean?" He urges, panicked.

Henry curls his lip. "She's… _gay_."

Hester drops her fork. It clatters onto the floor and she stutters an apology as she goes to pick it up.

"What?" John says, more than asks .

Henry doesn't seem to notice his deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Alexander doesn't see the harm in it, but he's always been too naive, really."

"I have to go," Hester squeaks. She stuffs her plate into the dishwasher and dashes upstairs.

Henry frowns. "Is she alright?"

"I'll go check," John manages, making his own escape.

When he gets upstairs, his immediate reaction is to lock himself in his room. He can feel his breath becoming labored, and he doesn't want a repeat of yesterday. _Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,_ he reminds himself. He looks over at his turtle, Flos. Flos always looks calm. Eight-year-old John used to want to be a turtle. Turtles looked happy. And after Eleanor died…

He shakes his head. Best not to dwell on that. Right now, his priority is Hester.

He creeps out of his room and knocks quietly on her door.

"Go away!" Orders the muffled, sniffling response.

"It's Jack."

There's a pause. "I don't care. Go away."

"Are you okay?"

"I said go away."

"Do you need a hug?"

"…yes."

John opens the door slowly. Hester is huddled on her bed, her eyes red. She's clutching a pillow to her chest. John sits down next to her and tentatively wraps his arms around her. She chokes out a sob and burrows into him.

John kisses the top of her head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

They cuddle in silence for a few moments.

"I knew," Hester murmurs tentatively after a while.

"Hm?"

She takes a shaky breath, and her whole body stiffens as if bracing for impact. "I knew about Margaret."

"Okay."

"Are you going to ask how?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

Hester takes another shaky breath. "She kissed me last summer."

John stiffens, and Hester hastily adds, "She asked if she could first. And I said yes. It wasn't without my permission, but —" she breaks off into another sob.

John hugs her tighter. "Shh, it's okay."

"I-if dad kn-new…"

"It's okay," John repeats. "It's okay."

They sit there for a long time before John returns to his room.

* * *

_He's dimly aware that he's dreaming, but for some reason that doesn't seem right. Why would he fall asleep when_ _…_ _? Something had been wrong. Something_ _…_ _something_ _…_

_He's in a house. It's comfortable, familiar; it's his old house in South Carolina. He knows that, even though it's different. Without looking out a window, he know's he's in Switzerland._

_He went to med school here. He glances down to see that he's wearing a stethoscope around his neck and a lab coat. He's a family practice doctor._

_With dream-bestowed sixth sense, he explores the house in an instant. There are two-and-a-half children (which he accepts as normal), a dog, and several turtles. The house is surrounded by a white picket fence being painted by a small group of boys; one of them looks like Tom Paine, but John knows it's Tom Sawyer._

_Francis comes up in front of John, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He looks less like a person and more like the drawing John made of him. Francis puts his hand on John's arm; there's a wedding band on his finger. John wears the matching one._

_Francis leans forewords_ _…_

John wakes up in a cold sweat.


	3. Panic! at the Gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shhhh... you're not on drugs, right?"
> 
> He shakes his head.
> 
> "Should you be?"
> 
> There's a pause too long for the next statement to be a joke, or, at least, a funny one. "Maybe."

Walking into second period geography on Wednesday, John is greeted by an enthusiastic Francis waving him over to an empty seat. 

"Hey, Turtle Man, guess what?" he gushes as John sits down. 

"What?" 

"My family's going to Geneva over Winter break!" 

"Cool!" 

"You have any plans?" 

John hesitates. He'd assumed that Henry would want to visit Alexander, but after that whole deal with Margaret... 

"I, uh, I'm not really sure. I don't think so." 

"Okay. Hey, you should totally text me! I can keep you updated on all the cool stuff I'm doing and you can, like, live vicariously through me." 

John's heart skips a beat at "text me." He ignores it, trying desperately not to think about his dream last night. 

Francis scribbles his number down onto a piece of paper and slides it over to John. 

"Give me yours so I don't think I'm getting a text from the wrong number." 

John obliges, signing the paper in cursive to remind Francis whose number it is. Not to show off, or anything. Definitely not just to see Francis grin, which he does. 

"I'm gonna put you in my contacts as 'Turtle Man,'" Francis informs him. 

"I can put you into mine as 'Forehead Guy,'" John jokes. 

Francis laughs. John's heart flutters. 

Mr. Gage clears his throat. "Have either of you considered paying attention in class?" he snarks. 

"Can't," Francis shoots back. "It's bad for the baby." 

Mr. Gage scowls. "What baby?" 

"Me," Francis replies with a shit-eating grin. 

Mr. Gage's scowl deepens. "Report to the principal's office, Mr. Kinloch." 

"That's what you get for _flirting!_ " Dick taunts. 

John goes red and sinks lower into his seat. 

"Get a life, Dick," Francis replies before dramatically flinging open the door, leaving, and slamming it behind him. 

"Hey," whispers a quiet voice from John's left. He turns to see a blue-eyed boy with faint scars across his nose and an impressive widow's peak: James. 

"Are you okay?" James checks tentatively. 

"What? Yeah, of course, fine." John sits back up. "Why?" 

"Nothing. You just looked... I don't know, never mind." 

"Okay." John gets the slow sinking feeling associated with a conversation that isn't going to die nearly as soon as it should. 

"Uh, how's life?" He asks awkwardly. 

"What?" 

"I'm trying to make conversation." 

"We're in class." 

"To be fair, you technically started this." 

"I... guess I did. Um, life is good, I guess?" 

"Cool." 

"Kitty won't stop talking about this party Dolley invited her to." 

"I don't know who either of those people are." 

"Right. Kitty Livingston is my girlfriend," James explains, "Dolley Payne is the school's resident party girl. I'm not really friends with her. She's a bit too..." 

"Wild?" John supplies. 

"...social, for my taste," James finishes 

"Ah." 

"Which, of course doesn't stop her from trying to invite me. Not face-to-face, of course. She usually only personally invites if she wants to make sure someone knows they're more than welcome. She knows I know. I just don't like parties." 

"If you don't mind me asking," John begins, changing the topic, "how did you get those scars on your nose?" 

"Frostbite when I was ten," James answers with a tight smile that implies he's used to the question. 

"Yikes." 

"Yeah, well, that was the winter I moved to New York from Virginia. Suffice to say, I wasn't quite used to that much snow. I was ill-prepared." 

John's eyes light up. "Oh, that's right!" he enthuses with hushed excitement. "Snow!" 

James raises his brow. "Where are you from?" 

"South Carolina." 

"Oh, wow. Pro-tip: layering. However cold you think it is, you're wrong." 

"Noted." 

Dick turns around in his seat to sneer at John. "Pick one guy to flirt with, New Guy!" he hisses. 

"Dick, I know you're quite enjoying that stick up your ass," James deadpans, "but it's high-time to remove it. Take your head out, while you're at it." 

Dick turns back around, grumbling. 

John sucks in an appreciative breath. " _Nice._ " 

The corner of James's lip twitches. "Honestly? I've been waiting to use that one for forever." 

Mr. Gage looks like he's a second away from banging his head against the chalkboard. 

"I would never want to be a teacher here," James muses. 

"Who would?" John scoffs. 

"I would," Nathan interjects. 

James narrows his eyes. "Were you listening in on our conversation?" he accuses. 

"Only the last bit," Nathan admits sheepishly. "Sorry." 

"It's fine," John assures, although James still looks ticked. "But seriously, why on Earth would you want to teach here?" 

Nathan shrugs. "Not here, specifically. I just want to be a teacher someday." 

John looks up to see that Mr. Gage has written an inordinate amount of homework up on the board. 

"Is that even legal?" John hears Ben complain. 

The bell rings just as John finishes copying down the work. He checks his schedule, grins, and heads out the door to go to art. Nathan and Ben catch up with him on the way. 

"What do you take for art?" Nathan asks. 

"Art Fundamentals," John answers. "You?" 

"Pythias and I take Journalism," Ben informs him. 

John hums. "You enjoying it?" 

Nathan nods. "Definitely! I mean, it's run by Mr. Franklin, so obviously. The other day, we went "people watching" by spying on various classes, and then wrote about what we saw like we were documenting something happening in the animal kingdom." 

Ben chuckles. "Pythias and Jack tried to spy on Principal George's assistant, Mr. Seabury, and they got caught. Principal George confronted Franklin about the project, and Franklin just made a bunch of weird, unrelated comments until George gave up and left." 

"I actually got detention," Nathan adds, "but Jack got off scot-free, for some reason." 

"Because he's a sexy beast who can do as he pleases," Ben reasons. 

Nathan rolls his eyes. "Your man-crush on Jack is disturbing." 

"Hey," Ben protests, "my man-crush on Jack is an entirely natural occurrence. _Everyone_ has a man-crush on Jack." 

John sports a look of wild bewilderment. "Who's Jack?" 

"A se–" Ben starts before Nathan cuts him off. 

"If you say "sexy beast" again, so help me, Damon." 

Ben pretends to pout. "Fine. Jack Andre is a remarkably talented, all-around fantastically awesome, incidentally quite attractive fellow who–" 

""Sexy beast" was less painful to listen to," Nathan amends. 

Ben grins. "No, but seriously, he's great. He sings, he draws, he charms ladies and gentlemen alike–" 

"He's not even here," Nathan interrupts, "and I still want to tell you to get a room." 

"You're just jealous." 

Nathan pantomimes gagging, and Ben bursts into gleeful laughter again. 

"See you later!" Ben calls as John veers towards his classroom. 

"Have fun in Journalism!" John laughs.

* * *

After art class, John waits in the locker bay for Tom. He’d wait by Tom’s classroom, but Tom has switched classes so many times that John isn’t actually sure where that is. When Tom finally shows up, he’s talking to a short, round-faced girl with wavy hair framing her face.

“Hey,” John greets them, catching up.

“Hi!” the girl chirps, extending a hand. “I’m Sarah Ponsonby, what’s your name?”

“John Laurens,” he answers, shaking her hand.

“You have really nice eyes.”

“Uh...”

“I say that from an objective standpoint, of course.” She puts her hand on her heart and sighs dramatically. “Alas, my heart belongs to another.”

“Uuugh,” Tom moans. “If I have to hear about Ellie one more time, I might scream.”

John frowns. “Ellie?”

Sarah sighs again, possibly even more dramatically, and John can practically see hearts in her eyes. “Eleanor Charlotte Butler, the human embodiment of –”

“No,” Tom stops her. “Nope. Shut up. Please. Just once.”

Sarah pouts. “Fine.” She opens the door to room 204 as they reach it. “You’re coming, right?” she affirms.

“Of course,” Tom agrees.

Seeing the confused look on John's face, Tom elaborates, "Literary Magazine. They meet on Wednesdays. Sarah convinced me to join. 

"You should come, too!" Sarah adds brightly. 

John considers it. "What exactly does that entail?" 

"Just come to the meeting, you'll see. It's fun!" 

"Alright," John agrees hesitantly. 

As John steps into the classroom, he's met almost immediately by a boy with a tight shirt and a red scarf who shakes John's hand firmly, introducing himself as "Day, pleased to meet you. And you are?" 

"John," John replies, slightly startled. Day is a bit imposing. 

A girl with dark brown skin and a pink bandana rests a hand on Day's arm. "Thomas, I think you're scaring him." 

Day/Thomas scowls. "First of all, don't call me Thomas. There are far too many Thomases in this school, so I will be referred to by my last name, thank you very much. Seco–" 

"There are four Thomases who attend this school," interrupts a boy with thick eyebrows who John recognizes as Will from his art class. "Jefferson's in France this year, so he doesn't count, so three, actually. Nobody uses Mr. Gage's first name, Paine goes by Tom, and Stothard goes by Tommy. There is literally no reason for you to–" 

"Secondly," Day continues loudly, "I highly doubt I am scaring him." 

"...he shouts," narrates a guy coming up behind the girl. 

Day opens his mouth to say something else, but a teacher walking into the room interrupts him. "Are you two joining us today?" he asks Tom and John. 

They nod. 

"Good." The teacher sets the papers in his hand down on the desk. "I'm Mr. Cowper. Lit Mag is mostly student-run, but you're still required to have an adult to supervise you. That would be me." He raises his voice to address the whole room. "Let's go around and introduce ourselves." 

Thomas Day, William Blake, and Sarah Ponsonby introduce themselves even though John and Tom both already know their names. The girl with the bandana informs them that her name is Phillis, but that she goes by Phil. A particularly handsome guy introduces himself as Jack Andre, and John can't help but agree with Ben a bit. The guy who had said "...he shouts" is Joel Barlow, and Tom already knows him. John's lab partner David is here, too, as is If Looks Could Kill, whose name, John remembers, is Angelica. A guy named George Crabbe walks in a little late. 

"Let's begin," Mr. Cowper suggests, passing out sheets of paper. "For those of us who are new, here's how this works: I'll hand out a submitted piece, someone will read it out loud, and we'll discuss it. Then, you'll write either "yes" or "no" on the top, based on whether or not you think it should be in the Literary Magazine, and give it back to me. Alright? Good." 

John sits down and looks at the paper. It's a poem, from what he can tell from the format, titled " _Crushing on He-Man_." 

"I like the title," Sarah comments. 

"This better not be another sappy love poem," Angelica warns. "I mean, I'm all for _good_ love poems, but remember last week?" 

Joel shudders. "I'd rather not." 

"Who'd like to read?" Mr. Cowper asks. 

Tom raises his hand and starts reading when Mr. Cowper nods to him. 

There's a silence as he reads the last line, "because boys don't play with Barbie dolls." 

Finally, Jack lets out a breath. 

"This is literally me as a little kid," he decides. 

By the time John figures out what he means, the group has already moved on. 

"Okay, so this was definitely not a sappy love poem," Angelica notes. 

"I like the format," Will comments. "It helps break it up into sizable chunks while still retaining continuity." 

Joel chuckles. "At first I was like, "no way is this going how I think it's going, and then it did. Which is not a bad thing, mind you." 

"LGBT, LGBT," Sarah chants quietly. 

"Please write your vote on the top of the paper," Mr. Cowper reminds them. 

John swallows a lump forming in his throat. He stares at the paper for a while before scribbling a small "yes" in the upper margins and handing the paper to George, who collects them for Mr. Cowper. 

Mr. Cowper looks over the papers. "It's a yes. This piece was anonymous, which means that we respect the writer's privacy, okay?" 

Everyone nods. 

Mr. Cowper hands a sheet to Sarah. "This is an art piece. Pass it around and write your vote."

John knows who drew it the second he gets the sheet. He's been in art class with Will long enough to recognize his style, and besides, it's dragons. The picture gets a unanimous yes, and Will punches the air in victory. 

"Alright," Mr. Cowper continues. "We have one more piece, and then you guys can go." 

The final piece is a black rights poem titled " _There is Something Wrong with the World_." 

"Well this should be fun," mutters Joel. 

Day shoots him a glare, making it quite obvious who wrote the piece. 

The poem, if somewhat of a downer, is actually quite good, in John's opinion. He feels a sudden wave of guilt for all the times he's endured his father's bigoted stream of racism. Unfortunately, that gets him thinking about his father's bigoted views in general, which reminds him of last night, which... no. He votes "yes" on the piece. 

"Congratulations," Angelica snarks as Day claims ownership, "apparently you're not always a sociopath." 

"When am I ever a sociopath?" Day scoffs. 

"Oh, I don't know, how about that fucked up piece you submitted weeks ago? _How to Make a Perfect Girlfriend_?" 

"Language," Mr. Cowper says halfheartedly. 

"That wasn't sociopathic," Day protests. 

"Fine, you're right," Angelica agrees, "it was just awful and sexist." 

"You can leave now," Mr. Cowper reminds them pleadingly. 

They scowl and grab their backpacks. John hears them arguing all the way down the hall. 

Sarah comes up next to John. "So...?" 

"What?" 

"Did you like it?" 

"Yeah, it was pretty cool." 

She grins. "Great! You should come back next week!" 

"I will forcibly drag him here," Tom assures her. Then he glances at John, squinting. "You okay, dude?" 

"Yeah, fine," John mumbles. 

A fragment of something Ms. Pitcher said on Monday catches in the back of his mind:

_Did something hit too close to home?_

* * *

"Hey!" calls a voice as John and Tom leave room 204. Instinctively, John turns his head to see a girl with dark, curly hair and a low-cut lime-green top approaching them. 

"Hi Dolley," Tom greets her. 

She jabs a finger at his chest. "New Year's." 

"Wouldn't miss it," he laughs. 

Dolley looks over to John and smile. "You're John, right?" 

John blinks. "Uh, yeah. How did you –" 

"She makes it her business to know everyone," Tom explains. 

Dolley swats Tom's arm. "Oh, stop it! You make me sound like a stalker. Francis told me about you." She directs the last bit at John. He suddenly feels very warm for some reason. 

"Did you come over here for any particular reason?" Tom questions, grinning. "Or did you just want to talk to me?" 

"Is he always this annoyingly flirtatious?" Dolley asks John, ignoring Tom's question. 

"Not that I've noticed," John replies. 

Dolley rolls her eyes, but doesn't really look annoyed. "I actually came over here to invite John to my New Year's party." 

John's immediate thought is to ask "when is it?" before he realizes what a dumb question that is. 

"Where is it?" he asks instead. 

"Hold on, I wrote it down so you wouldn't forget." Dolley roots around in her purse before emerging with a note-card. She hands it to John. 

"You can come as early as seven," she informs him, "unless you want to help set up, in which case, feel free to show up earlier." 

Tom smirks. "What if I just want to spend time with you?" 

"Then you're going to have to suck it up and deal. Bye John!" she calls over her shoulder, heading back down the hall. 

Tom beams. "I will never tire of annoying her." 

"Why did Francis tell her about me?" John wonders aloud. 

"No idea, dude. Maybe turtles came up in conversation." 

"Ha ha. Very funny." 

"Well, there he is now. Maybe you should ask him." 

Sure enough, Francis is leaning against a wall outside of one of the history classrooms talking to a blond guy who's explaining something animatedly. 

"No," John reasons, "he looks busy." 

"One, I was joking. Two, too late, he saw you." 

"John!" Francis waves him over. "Hey! Come over here so I'm not suffering this history lecture alone." 

"If you do not vant to listen, do not," the other boy mutters. His accent sounds German. 

"Nah, man, I'm just kidding," Francis laughs. His eyes twinkle mischievously. "Probably. Anyways, John, this is Joe. Joe, John." 

Joe reaches out a hand, which John takes. "Johannes, actually, but you may call me Joe if you vish. And before you ask, no, I am not German. I'm from Svitzerland." 

"Cool." 

"Okay, wait, watch this," Francis grins. "John, what's your favorite time-period or historical thing to learn about or whatever?" 

"Uh, the Renaissance, I guess." 

Joe scowls. "Vhy does no vun ever say ze gud vuns!" he exclaims in anguish. 

"See, watch," Francis urges. 

This is how John ends up listening to 15 minutes of Swedish history in a progressively harder-to-understand German accent. Francis grins wider and wider at John's perplexed facial expressions. Finally, though Joe is nowhere near done, Francis cuts him off. 

"See? If I can get him into any other time-period, I'll never have to attend a history class again!" 

The bell rings for fourth period. 

"I did not get to finish!" Joe complains. 

"Later," Francis assures him. He grabs John's hand and yanks him into a quick hug, patting him on the back. "Bye John!" 

Tom walks up behind John. 

"What the Hell was that?" John asks him. 

"I believe," Tom muses, "it is known as a 'bro hug'."

* * *

After school, John waits by the carpool exit until a minivan with a little confederate flag sticker on the back pulls up. John cringes. No matter how many times he asks his dad to remove the sticker, he always gets the same speech: "blah blah blah ancestors in the war blah blah blah family pride blah blah blah heritage etc." 

John walks to the car briskly, pulling his coat tight around him; he's starting to see James's point about the cold. 

Hester is waiting in the car. She got a scholarship to an all-girls school, or else she would be going to King's High School and waiting in the carpool line with John. Henry would have pressed John to apply to some fancy school, too, but there hadn't been one available in the area. 

"How was your day, Jack?" Henry asks as John gets in the car. 

"Fine." He knows he sounds stressed, but thankfully, Henry doesn't say anything. Instead, he turns on the radio and lets John avoid conversation the rest of the way home. 

The second he gets inside, John goes up to his room to lie down. He's not even physically tired, he just feels like he's mentally dead. _Well, that's high school for you_ , he thinks. Suffice to say, he's far too out of it to control where his brain goes. 

...which might be why the first thing he thinks of when he lies down is the way Francis's gray-green eyes sparkle when he laughs. As he dozes off, the green becomes sharper, brighter. Francis – no, not Francis anymore – the boy is younger, maybe 10 or 11. John is a little older than him, but younger than he knows he really is; he hasn't yet hit the growth spurt that shot him past his dad, and he's rather slightly built. He and the boy are fencing with sticks. John doesn't know the first thing about fencing, but the other boy takes lessons. He's trying to teach John. Every time John messes up, the boy quirks one of his big, sweet smiles and shows John what to do. The image isn't quite a dream, but it's close. It's a memory, John realizes. The boy laughs and says something, and even though the not-quite-dream has no sound, John knows the boy called him "Jacky." He remembers the boy, now: Alex Jr., Alexander Garden's son. He and John had been close friends when the families used to see each other more often. John wonders how Alex is doing now before falling back further into the dream. 

_"You're getting there!" Alex encourages. "Now parry like – oh, so close!"_

_He walks over to John, who lowers his 'sabre'. Alex nudges John's feet back into the proper position, bracing himself on John's shoulder. Then he takes John's arm, attempting to move it to show John how to properly parry._

_"I don't think I'm going to get it," John giggles._

_"You can try," Alex insists. Then he gasps. "Look!"_

_A yellow butterfly flutters past over their heads, and then past them into the garden. Alex grabs John's hand and starts running after it._

_"Come on, Jacky!"_

_The butterfly lands of a gardenia for a moment before taking flight again, but Alex doesn't chase it this time. Instead, he stands in the middle of the garden, still holding John's hand, and breathes in deeply._

_"I love nature," he states simply._

_John nods, not needing to say anything. In the back of his mind, he remembers what happens next: Henry will find them like this, holding hands, and scowl. John won't understand why he's upset, but will forget about it when Margaret, Harriotte, and Juliette run up excitedly, holding a turtle. None of that has happened yet. For now, John is content to stand there holding hands with the boy next to him._

_He barely notices that the boy is now Francis._

It hits John like a taxi cab that's never heard of pedestrians' right of way. 

"Fuck," he gasps, jolting up. His mind is reeling. It can't – could it – is he? – no... 

He makes sure his door is closed, then staggers over to the mirror above his dresser. 

Through the chaos and sentence fragments in his brain he finds one painfully clear thought. It seems so obvious in retrospect, yet it doesn't seem real. 

He looks his mirror-self dead in the eye and takes a breath. "I'm gay." 

The word sends a shiver down his spine, but it still feels like he's reading the script for a movie, like he's talking about someone else. 

He leans in, gripping the dresser. "A homosexual." 

Still, nothing. He tries again, this time slipping into a Southern accent that, he notes, sounds a bit like his dad. "One of those damned Sodomites!" 

That doesn't work, either, which is hardly surprising. _Technically_ , he'd have to have committed sodomy to be a sodomite, and he's still a virgin. He's never even kissed a guy. He just happens to have a crush on one. 

He has a crush on a guy. 

There it is. 

His lungs feel like they're committing mutiny, he could swear the walls shot towards him, his hands are shaking, he can't breathe, can't think, can't do much else then curl up on the floor in fetal position. 

There's a knock on the door. 

_Go away!_ He can't yell, no sound comes out. 

"Jack?" Hester calls. "Dad says it's time for dinner." 

He can't even think in full sentences. He imagines a typed version of his thoughts right now might read as _aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_. His body forces out a strangled bark of laughter. 

"Jack?" Hester sounds worried this time. 

He can't stop laughing, but his body isn't getting any more oxygen than it was a moment ago. There are tears streaming down his face; from panic or laughter, John can't tell. 

"Jack, if you don't answer me, I'm coming in." 

_No._

"Jack?" 

_Go away._

The door opens, and Hester gasps. "Oh, shit, Jack!" 

He wants to tell her that everything is okay, that he's okay, but he can't. She rushes over. 

"Oh thank god, you're breathing. Jack, what's – are you okay?" 

_Yes. Go away._

"Shh, shh, come on, Jack, breathe." 

_I'm trying_. It's getting easier by the second, which is good, but his hands are still shaking and he still can't _think dammit._

Hester pulls him up into a hug. She doesn't ask what's wrong, doesn't say anything, just let's him focus on breathing. He sobs out another laugh, and now he's actually sobbing, trying to hide behind her shoulder as if suddenly she won't see him like this. 

"Shh, it's okay," she murmurs. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry–" 

"Shhhh... you're not on drugs, right?" 

He shakes his head. 

"Should you be?" 

There's a pause too long for the next statement to be a joke, or, at least, a funny one. "Maybe." 

"Should I–" 

"Don't tell Dad." 

She holds him at arms length, frowning. "Jack, if there's a problem–" 

"No!" he flinches at his own volume and lowers his voice. "No, there's not – there's – it's nothing he needs to know about." 

"Jack..." 

He swallows. "There's this guy." 

She goes rigid. "Jack, if someone's hurting you–" 

"No. There's this _guy._ " 

She blinks, processing. Then her mouth forms an "O". 

"You mean... like Margaret?" she checks. 

He nods. She nods back and pulls him into another hug. 

"Okay. I won't tell if you don't. Deal?" 

"Deal," he croaks. 

"Everything's going to be fine, Jack," she soothes, but he knows the tone of voice. She's telling herself more than she's telling him. 

"Tell Dad I'm not hungry." 

"Okay," she promises. Then, quieter, "Everything's going to be fine."


	4. Pop-Chicka-Pop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I punched a guy.”
> 
> George’s smile is quickly morphing into a scowl. “Right. The question is why.”
> 
> John’s mouth moves before his brain does. “Because Chuck was being a little shit.”

There's nothing like first period PE to make you wish you had contracted the plague to stay home from school. The wish crosses John's mind before he's even through homeroom.

Francis practically bounces into the room, and John's stomach flip-flops as he notices how Francis's boyish grin curves into his sparkling gray-green eyes, and how –

 _Stop it_ , he commands himself. He takes out a pen and starts doodling, avoiding looking at Francis, but Francis seeks him out anyways.

"Hey!" he greets John brightly.

"What's got you so happy?" John grumbles.

"Why shouldn't I be happy?"

 _Because you don't know what it does to me._ "We have PE first period."

"Aw, c'mon, Turtle Man, you'll be fine!" Francis laughs, punching him lightly in the arm.

The familiar warmth creeps up John's neck, accompanied by a shock-sensation as he realizes what it is; he's blushing. He groans involuntarily, which thankfully fits into the conversation.

"So there's this girl," Francis explains, answering John's question.

John pretends he can't feel his throat constricting. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Francis' smile takes on a dreamy quality. "Oh, man, she's so hot. Her name's Millie. She's just…" Francis shakes his head. "She just is, man, y'know?"

John is about to reply that no, he doesn't know, when it strikes him that that would be a blatant lie. "Yeah," he murmurs instead.

Apparently the reply wasn't quite nonchalant enough, because Francis perks up and asks, "Hey, wait a sec, you got the hots for anyone?"

 _Yes, and it's killing me._ "No."

"C'mon, man, I won't tell anyone."

"I don't have a crush, Francis."

Francis stares at him appraisingly for a moment. "You're lying," he decides.

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you definitely are. I can tell."

"How can you tell?"

Francis grins. "I know you."

"Yeah, you've known me for…" John has to stop to think. It feels like forever, but that's obviously not right.

"Four days," Francis fills in. "Counting today."

"Exactly."

"Doesn't matter. We're friends, I can tell if you're lying. Like I said, I know you."

John says nothing, largely because speaking would require sorting through the millions of thoughts running through his head: there's no way Francis can really tell he's lying, it seems impossible that this is only the fourth day since they met, how can Francis know him when John barely knows himself, he's probably staring at Francis, he should stop, Francis is really attractive, now that he thinks about it, Francis–

"Earth to Turtle Man. Come in, Turtle Man." Francis snaps his fingers in front of John's face, making John start. "You with me, man?"

"Yeah, sorry. Zoned out."

"No kidding. I'm pretty sure it's time to go to first period. Everyone else is leaving."

John looks around to see that Francis is right. "Oh."

"Yeah. Come on."

John stuffs the pen in his pocket and walks with Francis towards the locker rooms as Francis happily chatters away about nothing in particular. As they reach the hallway containing various locker rooms and bathrooms, John waits for Francis to veer off towards his usual destination. Instead, Francis follows John further down the hallway.

"Don't you usually change in the other locker room?" John questions.

"Yeah," Francis explains, "but we're in the middle of a conversation."

"Right. Okay." John swallows. His brain has apparently lost track of what constitutes as 'normal' in a conversation, and he suddenly feels like everything he could possibly say would be wrong. Does he even need to say anything right now? Was his response to Francis's explanation unnecessary? How on a Earth has he ever acted casual about anything when it seems well nigh impossible right now?

Francis gives him a strange look before pushing open the door and walking into the locker room, and John realizes he's been standing next to the door like an idiot. Resisting the urge to hit his forehead, John follows. Francis takes a breath and immediately starts coughing.

"Hoo, boy!" he wheezes. "I thought the other room was bad, but _damn_! Did maintenance try to use Axe as Febreeze or something?"

John shrugs. "You get used to it."

Francis gives one final, definitely over-exaggerated cough for good measure. "If you say so, man." He looks around. "Where's everyone else?"

John scans the room to see Benny, William, Nathan, and Ben all chatting in the background. "This is pretty much everyone that uses this room."

"Is it the smell?"

"It's the smell."

Francis walks over to a nearby bench and tosses his gym bag down. "Why does anyone use it, then?"

John shrugs, setting down his own bag. "Fewer people?" He lowers his voice. "I honestly think William's here just because Benny is."

Francis raises his eyebrows in mirth. "Probably," he snickers. He tugs his shirt over his head, and John's breath catches in his throat.

_Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare._

"Seriously, though," Francis continues quietly, oblivious to John's growing discomfort. "If he doesn't work up the balls to ask him out soon, I'm going to lock them in a room together or something."

John makes a noncommittal noise that's slightly squeakier than he intended it to be. He yanks his own shirt off, quickly pulling on the PE one.

"Probably shouldn't talk about them while they're right there," Francis adds. "Hey, what Hogwarts house would you be in?"

John blinks. "What?"

"Four days of knowing you, and I don't even know the most important thing about you."

"Why is that–"

Francis looks him dead in the eye. "Because Harry Potter."

John breaks the eye-contact hastily. "Gryffindor," he mumbles.

Francis narrows his eyes. "Are you saying that because you think Gryffindor is the coolest, or because you actually think you'd be in Gryffindor?"

"I actually think I'd be in Gryffindor. What about you?"

"Probably Hufflepuff," Francis replies, shrugging. John tries desperately not to watch the movement in his shoulder muscles. _Put a damn shirt on_ , he pleads silently.

Francis gets as far as grabbing the shirt from his bag before he gets side tracked again. "I mean, I'm definitely not brave enough to be in Gryffindor, plus I'm way too chill. Usually. Also, not really super 'ambitious,' per say, so that's a no-go on Slytherin. I guess I'm, like, decently smart? So maybe Ravenclaw. But I feel like that doesn't really define me, y'know? I have the whole loyal thing down, and I'm usually pretty hard-working, at least when I actually give a crap about something." He absentmindedly bunches the shirt into a ball and switches it to the other hand. "So yeah, probably Hufflepuff."

It occurs to John that he could leave the locker room if he finishes changing. Then he realizes that that would involve taking his pants off. In front of Francis. Who _still_ hasn't put the shirt on. _Fuck._

Francis apparently remembers that he's holding his PE shirt and pulls it over his head, generating an aggravating mixture of relief and disappointment in John. This aggravation is immediately followed by sheer panic as Francis reaches for his fly. John jerks his gaze away. He knows he's blinking too much. He's sure Francis notices him swallowing so often. _He's so incredibly fucked._

Fortunately, Francis doesn't take nearly as long changing his pants as he did changing his shirt. Unfortunately, rather than just leaving, he sits down to continue his conversation with John.

"Problem is, I can't really pull off yellow," Francis notes. "But hey, if we were going by what colors we could rock, I'd be a Slytherin and you'd be a Ravenclaw."

John furrows his brow. "Why Ravenclaw?"

Francis leans back, grinning. "Man, have you looked in a mirror? Your eyes are really blue. Like, 'okay, we get it, you can stop now,' kind of blue."

John isn't going to blush. He isn't. He really, really needs to get out of this locker room. In one rush of determination, he strips off his pants and thrusts himself into his gym shorts.

"Alright," Francis announces, heading towards the door. "Onwards to Hell."

Before John leaves, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he comes face-to-face with William.

William glances at Francis and casts John a knowing look. "Good luck."

John doesn't bother asking how he knew.

* * *

Come the end of PE, John is jittery, to say the least. He changes as quickly as possible, before Francis, engaged in a discussion with someone else, even makes it to the locker room. Francis still ropes him into a conversation on his way to history, but John thanks his lucky stars that at least they’re both clothed.

“Do you think I’d be a good quidditch player?” Francis asks.

“What’s with the sudden fascination with Harry Potter?”

Francis laughs. “Man, I’ve always been a huge Potterhead. I just hadn’t unleashed it on you yet.”

John rolls his eyes, smiling. “Good to know.”

“No, but seriously, wouldn’t it be the coolest thing to fly on a broom?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“And I’m just gonna put this out there, I totally want an owl.” Francis actually appears fairly serious. “Like, in real life. I want an owl. I’d train it to send letters, it’d be great.”

“I’m relatively certain that’s harder than it sounds."

Francis sighs. “Doesn’t matter, I’m not getting one anyway. My dad won’t let me.” He brightens. “Do you think they’d let you bring a turtle as a pet?”

“Maybe?”

“Wait, do you actually have a turtle?”

John nods.

Grinning, Francis asks, “What’s its name?”

“Flos.”

Francis raises his eyebrows gleefully. “You named your turtle “Flower” in Latin?”

John feels a blush creeping over his cheeks. “Crap. I was not expecting you to actually know that.”

“Hey, I know things!” Francis protests, shoving John playfully. He looks around to see them nearing the history classrooms. “Oh, you have Washington, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he really strict?”

John shrugs. “I guess. He’s a really good teacher, though. Who do you have?”

“Mr. Moultrie.”

“How’s he?”

Francis waves his hand vaguely. “He’s okay. I mean, I’m learning stuff, but… meh. Well, see ya later, Turtle Man!”

“Uh, have fun in class, I guess.”

Francis laughs dryly. “Yeah, right. I’ll try.”

John walks into the classroom and locates his seat. The guy on his left, a gaunt-faced kid named George who’s constantly holding his inhaler, nods quietly in John’s general direction. John considers saying something, but decides he doesn’t really want to be caught talking when Washington enters the classroom.

Sure enough, Washington walks in exactly on time, right with the bell, to start class. He sets a small pile of papers down on the desk and scans the room to make sure everyone is in their assigned seats. Evidently satisfied, he nods.

“You won’t be needing your textbooks today,” he informs the class. In any other class, murmuring or cheering might have erupted, but nobody makes a peep. Not for lack of excitement, per say, just because, well, Washington.

Washington reaches up to turn the projector on, walks over to flick off the lights, and takes out his tablet. After a moment of pressing buttons, he frowns and looks back up towards the classroom.

“You may talk quietly while I get this set up.”

John feels someone tap him on the shoulder. He turns around to see a wavy-haired boy in a wheelchair.

“You’re in my literary analysis class, right?” the boy inquires.

John nods. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“I’m still a teensy bit unclear what we’re supposed to be doing in those homework essays.”

John smiles. “Yeah, Nathan had to explain it to me. Basically, instead of just writing what rhetoric the paragraph uses, write why it used it.”

The boy scrunches his brow. “Can you give me an example?”

“Okay, say it references God a lot. Instead of just saying that the author uses ethos, explain why a call to religion might have motivated the intended audience.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Why are you the first person to explain it to me that simply?”

John shrugs. “No clue. By the way, you know those essays aren’t due until right before Winter Break, right?”

“That’s in a week.”

John blinks. “Oh. Wow. That crept up on me.”

The boy smiles. “Doesn’t it always?”

“Yeah. Hey, I never got your name.”

The boy sticks out his hand. “Edmund Randolph. Call me Ed.”

“John Laurens,” John replies, shaking Ed’s hand. “Weirdly enough, despite the surplus of Johns in this school, I’ve mostly gotten away with not using a nickname so far.”

Ed laughs. “Impressive.”

Washington makes a small, triumphant noise, and a hush falls over the classroom.

“Since we’ve been learning about the Renaissance,” Washington announces, “I thought I’d show you a video about a man very influential in that time.”

John perks up as the video starts. It’s about Leonardo da Vinci, and John’s a pretty big fan. He recalls, years ago, when his parents took him and his siblings to an art museum, pointing at the Mona Lisa and telling his dad, “I want to paint like that!” his dad had glanced at his mom, smiling. John hadn’t recognized the look at the time as, “sure, kid, whatever you say.”

After the video finishes, there’s a knock on the door, and Washington goes to answer it. Upon seeing whoever it is, he turns to the class and informs them, “I have to step out for five minutes. Stay in your seats and be quiet.”

The second he steps out, the guy on John’s right (Charlie, if John remembers correctly) lets out an exaggerated breath.

“Well,” he mutters. “That was entirely useless.”

John frowns. “What do you mean?”

Charlie looks at him somewhat distastefully. “Okay, first of all? I’m just going to say what we were all thinking: history class is useless.”

“That’s not –” John starts.

“And secondly?” Charlie interrupts. “It’s bad enough that we have to dedicate an entire class to useless facts that are good for nothing but, I don’t know, Trivial Pursuit, but that Washington has to dedicate an entirety of one of those classes to learning about some dusty old guy who’s been dead for centuries? Give me a break.”

“That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day,” John blurts out.

Charlie sneers. “Oh, do enlighten me.”

“The point of learning history is to evaluate the psychology of what people have done in the past, which can nine times out of ten be applied to modern day. Besides that, Leonardo da Vinci was a fascinating guy. He –” John stops as he sees Charlie mouthing “blah, blah, blah.”

Charlie looks up. “Oh, are you done? Good. As I was saying, Washington is wasting our time with –”

“No, excuse me, you’re the one wasting everyone’s time by –”

“Sorry, are you not getting what I’m saying?” Charlie pouts his lip in sarcastic sympathy. “Should I put it in simpler terms for you? Fine.” He speaks the next bit slowly, putting unnecessary pauses between words. “This entire lesson. Was stupid. And gay.”

Something inside John snaps.

_He’s ten years old. The kid is staring at him, waiting for the comment to set in. It rings around John’s head, taunting him._

_“It must be hard, living without a mom.”_

Ginger Loudmouth, sitting behind Charlie, scowls. “Don’t use gay as an insult, Chuck.”

_He’s seeing red. The kid is looking at him cautiously, gauging his reaction._

“Actually,” pipes up someone next to Charlie, “da Vinci was put on trial for sodomy once, so…”

_“Sorry,” the kid mutters. He doesn’t mean it. He just feels like he should say something._

_John doesn’t say anything._

Charlie quirks an eyebrow. “Like I said.”

_His fist moves before his brain does._

_There’s blood. It’s not his._

“Holy fuck, man, what the hell?” Charlie gargles cupping his nose. “Fuck! Am I bleeding?” He checks his hands. “Holy fuck, I’m bleeding! What the fuck?!”

_The teacher is rushing over now. John’s going to have to go to the office, but he doesn’t care. Everything is still red, he’s breathing heavy, he can’t think. He can only stare in apathy at the kid’s blood._

Washington is charging back into the room. “What is going on here?” he demands.

_“He hit me!” the kid wails._

“He punched me in the fucking nose!”

“Language,” Washington warns him.

_The teacher glares down at John._

Washington faces John, a look of stony disappointment in his eye.

_“Young man, report to the principal’s office immediately!”_

“Son, report to Principal George’s office. Now.”

* * *

John takes his sweet time getting to the office, but he makes it eventually. Mr. Seabury, a short, round man, peers at him indifferently.

"Yes?" Mr. Seabury prompts.

"Uh, Mr. Washington sent me."

Seabury sighs. "Why, exactly?"

John shifts uncomfortably, mentally forming a list of all the places he would rather be right now. "I punched someone."

Seabury raises his brow. "What on earth compelled you to do that?"

Half-formed answers tumble around John's head. He ignores them, electing instead to shrug dumbly. The response earns him a wary and exasperated stare.

"Ahem," Mr. Seabury coughs. "Go sit down. The Principal is in a meeting right now, but he will be with you shortly." He says "the Principal" the same way one might say "his Majesty."

John plunks himself into a seat and waits, slouching, as the seconds tick by. After about half a minute, he remembers the pen in his pocket. He takes it out and starts drawing swirls spiraling around his arm. He gets about three inches down when Seabury clears his throat.

"The Principal will see you now."

John trudges down the little hallway behind the desk to Principal George’s office. The room is lavishly furnished, to the point where John is certain it’s excessive.

Principal George looks up expectantly, then quirks his eyebrows in confusion. In a grating British accent, he asks, “Lauren?”

John bites the inside of his cheek in annoyance. “Laurens. It’s a surname.”

George looks down at a piece of paper on his desk. “Ah. Why so it is.” He looks back up at John. “Well, what brings you here?”

“You have my name written down, which means you were expecting me. Obviously someone already told you what happened.”

George plasters on a tight smile. “Well. Ahem. Yes. I was hoping to hear it from your perspective.”

“I punched a guy.”

George’s smile is quickly morphing into a scowl. “Right. The question is why.”

John’s mouth moves before his brain does. “Because Chuck was being a little shit.”

George isn’t resisting the scowl anymore. “I see. Detention for a week, I believe would be fitting. You’ll start next Monday. For now, your parents will be contacted and asked to bring you home.” He pauses. “In the meantime, you’ll go have a talk with Mr. Tuke. His office is down the hall.” George glares at John. “Go now.”

John keeps a level stare with George before turning and leaving the room.

When he reaches what must be Mr. Tuke’s office, he looks up to read the sign across the doorframe: Guidance Counselor.

Every part of his mind screams _oh no_.

He contemplates abandoning the office altogether and hiding in a stairwell somewhere until his father shows up, but Mr. Tuke, who had apparently been notified of John’s arrival, opens the door before John can turn back.

“John?” He asks.

John kind of wants to deny it and move on with his life, but he nods instead.

“Come in, come in.” Tuke ushers John into the room, closing the door behind them.

John notices several things about the office. For one thing, there are drawn blinds on the door’s window. For another, the walls are covered top to bottom in posters. Everything from inspirational cat posters to the feelings chart John is pretty sure he could find in a first grade classroom to decorative quotes is displayed somewhere. The bright colors and overwhelming positivity are nauseating.

“Have a seat,” Tuke invites.

John cautiously sinks into the couch. It envelopes him in what feels like a suffocating embrace.

Tuke examines John's wrist. "Did you draw that?"

"Yeah," John mumbles.

"It's very good. Are you an artist?"

"Please just get to the point."

“Alright,” Tuke sighs, sitting down. “What happened?”

“I guarantee you, someone already told you what happened. You knew I was coming.”

“I meant from your perspective.”

“I punched someone.”

To his credit, Tuke doesn’t look exasperated. “Yes, I’d heard that bit of the story. I also heard the bit where Charles was being ‘a little shit’.” There’s a mirthful glean in Tuke’s eye, and John isn’t sure whether or not he’s being mocked. “I was wondering if you could elaborate on that last point.”  
John shrugs.

Tuke leans forwards in a way that is probably supposed to suggest companionable secrecy, but that John translates as interrogatory nosiness.

“Was it something he said in particular that bothered you?”

Yes. Another shrug.

Tuke’s eyes widen a little bit in what John can only assume is contrived empathy. “Do you know why you punched him?”

John ogles him incredulously. “I’m pretty sure we’ve already covered this.”

“I’m asking for the emotional incentive.”

John is getting tired of shrugging.

Tuke nods to himself and gestures towards the feelings poster. “How about this: see if you can point out what you’re feeling on the chart.

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Nobody’s asked John to do that since early elementary school. He’s actually insulted that a high school guidance counselor is resorting to something so juvenile as a _feelings chart_. Tuke apparently doesn’t notice the look of sheer disgust on John’s face (although John is pretty sure it exactly mirrors “disgusted” on the chart), because he’s still looking at John expectantly. At this point, John is legitimately considering pointing to “annoyed” and leaving. Instead, he points hesitantly towards “mad”.

Tuke nods sagely, as if John didn’t just completely cop out on his answer.

“I see,” Tuke soothes. “Sometimes the words and actions of others can really anger us. We can’t let the actions of others dictate our own actions, though. Do you understand?”

John nods, hoping if he agrees Tuke will let him go. No such luck.

Tuke looks at John intently. “How do you think we can fix this in the future?”

John realizes, at this point, that the shrugging is getting excessive, so he puts a marginal amount of effort into formulating a response. “I’ll… try to control myself when I get angry.”

“How?”

John unsuccessfully bites back a scowl and shrugs.

Tuke goes to rummage his desk drawer, emerging with a small, brightly colored ball.

“This is a stress ball,” he explains. “If you ever feel upset or angry, just squeeze it.”

He offers the ball to John, who accepts it hesitantly, giving it a couple test squeezes. “Thanks?”

Tuke takes a breath to say something else, but the phone on his desk rings, cutting him off. He picks it up.

“Hello? Yes. Almost. Alright. Thank you.”

He hangs up the phone and turns back to John.

“Your father is here to pick you up,” Tuke informs him.

Suddenly, John isn’t entirely sure he’s against staying and chatting with Mr. Tuke for a little longer. He knows approximately how his father will react; stony anger, and then cold disappointment, likely both at once. Just thinking about, John almost prefers Tuke.

“Oh,” Tuke begins, “and one more thing before you go.”

‘Almost’ being the operative word.

“If you ever have a free moment, come back to check in with me.”

John almost laughs – there’s no way he’s ever stepping foot in this office again – but instead he murmurs a vague affirmative noise.

Tuke smiles. “I’ll see you around!”

_I hope not._

* * *

Henry is waiting for him in the front office. He turns away from polite small talk with Mr. Seabury as John enters.

"Well," Mr. Seabury dismisses them. "Thank you for coming in, Mr. Laurens."

Henry nods briskly, glancing at John only to ensure he has his things, and heads out towards the car. John follows miserably.

The ride home is twenty minutes long, but the seconds drag by into hours. John quickly decides he hates the stress ball. They're halfway home before Henry breaks the stony silence.

"I thought we were through with this," he bites out.

John doesn't reply.

"It's been what, five years? Six?"

John grunts.

Henry sighs in a way that heavily indicates he's aggravated, but mostly disappointed. "Do you need to go back to the therapist?"

" _No_." He says it with a little too much emphasis, and Henry scowls.

"It's not a punishment, John," he reminds.

"I don't need a therapist," John insists again, this time with less enthusiasm.

"Really?" Henry grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "Because today's incident begs to differ!"

"I'm not going to a therapist!"

"You are if I say you are!"

"Just _shut up_!"

The statement seems to echo around the car, contrasted by stark silence.

"Sorry," John mumbles without meaning it.

Henry doesn't speak for the rest of the car ride.

He drops John off at the house, emotionlessly informing him that he has to go back to work, then speeds away. John slams the door behind him and stomps up to his room. He collapses onto his bed, begging himself to think of absolutely anything but the situation on hand. Or any part of today, for that matter. He just wants to sleep, but he's too wound up and he doesn't trust his dreams.

He gives the stress ball a few more squeezes before hurling it forcefully towards his closet. It rolls inside, and he can't be bothered to go find it.

He decides to paint, instead.

Dragging out a roll of paper and his watercolor kit from under his bed and grabbing a cup of water from the bathroom, John sets up the supplies on the floor. He doesn't bother thinking about what he wants to do, just goes for it. The first piece starts looking suspiciously like Francis's eyes, so he scribbles it out. The next one turns out better. He starts with flowers; no type in particular, just anything that pops into his head. The bright colors blur together in his vision as he paints, until eventually he sits back on his haunches to find that the various blossoms have formed an empty circle in their midst.

He recognizes the garden. The way he's painted it isn't exactly as it is in real life, but the layout is pretty much the same. After adding a little gazebo in the background, the likeness strengthens; it's Alexander Garden's.

John fills in the sky, on impulse leaving a tiny piece blank. There, he paints a butterfly.

He knows the picture is missing something, but he's not sure he wants to add it. Painting the final touch feels like a confession, a physical piece of evidence proving something he will no longer be able to deny.

At the same time, he realizes he'll quickly grow to abhor the piece if he doesn't finish it. John has always been honest in his art, more so than he's ever been with any people, including himself. So he knows, deep down, that he can't abandon the picture. But even so…

He takes a deep breath, gripping the paintbrush.

With a few brush strokes, he adds the silhouettes of two boys, holding hands and gazing into the distance.


	5. Game Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's missing some fundamental aspects, of course."
> 
> "Like an igloo."
> 
> "Igloos are very important."

Tom has debate meetings on Fridays.

John consistently forgets about it, and today is no exception. So when he finally walks into lunch after remembering inconveniently late that Tom isn't going to meet him by the lockers, the lunch line is nearly empty and most of the seats in the lunchroom are filled. Whatever. He was considering eating lunch by himself, anyway.  
As he turns to leave, a bit of movement in the corner of his vision catches his attention. He turns back around to see Francis waving him over to the tiny circular table in the back.

There are three other people besides Francis at the table, two boys and a girl. One of the boys is James, and John thinks he recognizes the other one, the one with big, dark eyes and an arm in a cast, from math class. He thinks he's seen the girl in the halls before, but he's not sure.

He makes his way over and sits down between James and Francis.

"Great!" Francis enthuses. "Now we have enough to play Tongue!"

"We had enough before," the girl reminds him.

"Yeah," Francis acknowledges, "but with Tongue, the more the merrier."

Beside John, James's shoulders are shaking with barely contained giggling.

John's brain scrambles to catch up. "What?"

"It's not as inappropriate as it sounds," assures the boy next to James.

The girl gasps. "Aaron!"

"What?" Aaron asks innocently. "The way Francis said it made it sound really weird!"

"It's a card game," Francis explains, withdrawing a pack of cards from his pocket.

That makes a lot more sense than anything John was thinking.

Francis deals out the cards, explaining the rules: each person gets four cards. The first person in the circle picks the top card from the remaining pile and decides whether or not they want to switch it out with another card in their hand. Then, they pass whatever card they didn't want to the next person. The last person in the circle, known as Trash, creates the discard pile. The goal is different depending on who teaches you the game, but Francis plays that you either want four of the same number or four consecutive numbers all in one suit. Once you have that, you stick out your tongue. If you notice someone else has their tongue out, you stick yours out, too. The last person to stick their tongue out is eliminated, and the rounds continue until only one person is left.

"Isn't this going to be a little difficult for me to play?" Aaron asks, referring to his broken arm, which won't be able to handle cards.

"You could put your cards in your lap," James suggests. John notices that Aaron is the only person at the table James has really acknowledged; he seems to be ignoring everyone else.

Aaron frowns. "I guess I could try." He attempts to spread the cards out on his lap while still concealing them under the table, and manages to drop all but one in the process. He mutters what sounds like substitute swears (John thinks he hears "Oepidus" used instead of "motherfucker") as he stoops to pick them up. The edge of the table catches his head as he resurfaces.

"Holy son of a b — wombat!"

"We're all teens, Aaron," the girl reminds him. "You can curse."

" _Motherfuckstick_."

James bends over and picks up one of the cards, handing it back to Aaron with a smirk.

After a couple minutes of Aaron getting situated, they begin the first round. Francis explains that it's usually a game of speed, but he likes to play slower so that he can talk to people.

"And god forbid Francis not get to talk to people," the girl adds.

Francis grins. "Aw, come one, Millie, you know you love me!"

John stiffens at the name. If anyone notices, they don't let on.

"In your dreams," Millie laughs, rolling her eyes.

For the first time since sitting down, John actually takes a look at Millie. Her blond hair is pulled back on either side with loose French braids and her cheeks dimple when she smiles. What catches his attention most are her eyes; they're blue, okay-we-get-it-you-can-stop-now blue, his brain decides, not without a twinge of jealousy. Francis's crush is beautiful, and it's beyond aggravating.

Aaron is saying something as John tunes back into the conversation. A quick glance around the table explains why he's the only one talking; everyone else has the tips of their tongues poking past their lips. John sticks his out hastily, and Francis grins, his tongue still between his teeth, and points a gloating finger towards Aaron.

"Out!"

It takes more effort than John cares to admit not to stare at Francis biting his tongue. Which is ridiculous, seeing as _why the hell should that be attractive_ , but he catches Millie sneaking a glance, too, before elbowing Francis playfully and telling him to cut it out.

 _Shit_.

Francis lowers his arm, withdraws his tongue, and grins sheepishly at Millie. Aaron blows a raspberry in Francis's direction and scoots his hand towards the deck so Francis can reshuffle.

"Are you guys all going to Dolley's party?" Aaron asks, doing a very poor job of leaning back casually in his seat.

Francis shakes his head and deals the cards. "Nope. Better. I'm going to Geneva!"

"I'm definitely going," Millie states, picking up her cards.

Francis suddenly looks less excited about Geneva.

"What about you…" Aaron pauses uncertainly. "John, right?"

John nods. "Yeah. Uh, I might go. We'll see."

"Are you friends with Dolley?"

"Uh… should I be?"

Aaron is no longer paying attention. "See?" he comments to James. "John is going, and he doesn't even know Dolley."

"Neither do I," grumbles James from behind his cards.

"But you could."

"I'm not going."

"Come on, Little Jemmy, there's nothing to be afraid of!"

"I'm not afraid!" huffs James, at the same time as Francis asks, "Little Jemmy?"

"You need a girlfriend," Aaron continues.

"I have a girlfriend."

"Fine, you need more female friends."

"I have a female friend," James insists. "I have, um, Mildred."

"The fact that you refuse to call me Millie doesn't really make it seem like you consider us friends," Millie points out.

"Can I call you Little Jemmy?" Francis asks.

James scowls. "No."

John switches out a card and pokes the tip of his tongue out.

"You need to get out more," Aaron continues, either oblivious to James's discomfort or not really caring. "It's not healthy to only have two friends."

Millie glances at John and sticks her tongue out surreptitiously.

"I have more than two friends!" James claims in annoyance.

"Besides Thomas and me? Are you sure?"

"You're out, Little Jemmy," Francis announces around his tongue.

James scowls, throwing down his cards. "Don't call me that."

Francis puts his hands up in mock surrender before collecting the cards to re-deal.

"Why don't you tell us how you broke your arm, Aaron?" James suggests, clearly as payback.

Aaron grimaces and mutters something about falling off of his bed while he was texting his girlfriend, Theo. John notices the name "Theodosia" written in cursive on the cast, the i dotted with a heart.

As Francis shifts, laughing, his hair catches in the light. John had previously thought it was brown, but he now realizes it's more reddish, maybe auburn. He's so distracted by this revelation that he almost forgets to keep passing cards and fails to realize that Millie and Francis both have their tongues out.

"Down to two," Francis declares, grinning at Millie. They're both blushing a bit, and John feels like he's going to be sick.

He makes pleasant conversation as the round progresses, not really focused much on what he's saying, more on trying to resist the hot tears building up in the corners of his eyes. When Aaron asks if he's okay, John claims he has allergies, and James nods in sympathy.

"I win!" Millie cries suddenly.

Francis scowls, obviously not actually upset, and spreads out his hand on the table: three consecutive hearts and the ace of spades.

Millie has the heart he needed.

* * *

"You don't have anything after school on Tuesdays, right?"

John peers warily over at his father, whose face he can only half see from behind a computer screen.

"No," he answers cautiously. "Why?"

"I found a therapist who meets ten minutes from here. He-"

"Wait," John interrupts, earning a scowl. "A _therapist_? Don't I have to agree to that?"

"If you don't," Henry shoots back stonily, "you'll be sitting in the waiting room for an hour every Tuesday with nothing to do until you agree to talk to Dr. Pinel."

"I have detention this week."

Henry waves the excuse aside. "I talked the principal out of it. It would have been inconvenient to pick you up later."

John glowers for a moment. "Fine. I'll go to one meeting."

"And see how it goes?" Henry fills in. It's not actually a suggestion.

John has two days to stress about the meeting (added onto stress from school work, Francis, etc.) before Tuesday afternoon finally rolls around. Henry picks him up from school and drives him directly to the meeting without giving him a chance to go home first. After several minutes of waiting and John tactfully avoiding conversation, a shy girl and a woman who appears to be her mother shuffle out the door and a lady at the front desk directs John and Henry to a room down the hall.

They enter to find a short man with glasses and wispy hair.

"I'm Dr. Pinel," he introduces, standing up to shake Henry's hand, then John's. "You can call me Phil."

"How does this work, exactly?" Henry inquires, cutting right to the chase.

"I'm just going to talk to John, figure out the situation." He turns to John. "John, do you need your father to stay?"

"No," John decides, hastily enough that Henry frowns.

Phil retains a smile despite the near-tangible tension. "We'll be done in about an hour, Mr. Laurens. If you have something you need to do, errands or some-such, you don't need to stay in the building for that hour."

Henry nods sharply. He turns to John and almost says something, but instead turns on his heel and leaves the room.

Phil closes the door, taking off his glasses to clean them with one hand and gesturing to a little sofa near his desk with the other.

"Feel free to sit," he offers.

John accepts hesitantly, reminded of the couch in Mr. Tuke's office.

"So… now what?"

Phil finishes cleaning his glasses and sticks them back on his face, blinking a few times, before taking his way over to the chair by the desk.

"Your father said you were having some issues with violence at school," he explains. "I was wondering if you could elaborate?"

"I punched someone."

Phil nods, his features clearly stating that he's waiting John to continue.

"I - he was being a dick," John grumbles, "and I got sick of it, so I punched him."

"What exactly was he doing?"

John shrugs, honestly only remembering hazily. The entire experience is coated in a fuzzy layer of red in his memory.

"Um, he was saying history class was pointless. Actually, I think his exact words were, 'stupid and gay.'"

"I take it you like history?"

Well, yes, but not usually enough to punch someone.

"I guess. I mean, the teacher's pretty good. The guy was just being really obnoxious about it, acting like everyone secretly hated history and like his opinion was the only one that mattered."

"Do you think there are better ways you could have dealt with it?"

John stares at Phil. He didn't pose the question as if there was an obvious answer, namely, "yes of course," but rather as if he genuinely wanted to know if John thought punching was the most logical option.

"I - I guess."

"Like what?" Again, it was asked like an actual question.

"Well… he didn't really listen when I tried to talk, so, uh, ignore it?" He guesses, hoping to hit on an answer Phil likes.

"Would that have worked?"

"Maybe. He'd have had to shut up when the teacher came back in."

Phil nods. "Since you figured that out so quickly, is it safe to assume you weren't thinking logically when you punched him?"

Another shrug. "I guess."

"How might you be able to keep a level head in the future?"

"Deep breaths?"

Phil smiles. "Think of something you really think will work, not something you think will make me happy."

John blinks. "Uh…" Huh, what might actually help? "Talk louder than him?"

"Well, that might lead to a shouting match, but I suppose it's better than punching him. Anything else?"

"Come up with new and creative insults for him in my head until the teacher comes back into the classroom."

Phil laughs, a warm sound that leaves John feeling ever so slightly less shitty. "That's a good idea!"

They bounce ideas back and forth for the rest of the hour. Phil doesn't ask about the reasoning behind the stress and violence, and John doesn't offer up the information. The experience is overall slightly better than John had expected.

He's still glad to leave.

* * *

On Wednesday, Tom reminds John that they're going to the Lit Mag meeting. John expected Sarah to be there to greet them, but instead she comes in late, flushed and grinning ear to ear. Mr. Cowper silently hands her the poem they were about to read, but she seems to have no intention of letting the meeting continue uninterrupted.

"You will _never_ guess what just happened," she enthuses, flinging her backpack onto a nearby chair.

"You finally got some chill?" Joel supplies. "Nah, never mind, that's definitely not it."

Sarah tries to scowl, but obviously can't find it in herself at the moment to be upset.

"Eleanor asked me out!" She squeals.

"What!" Angelica gapes. "No way. That's awesome!"

"Congrats!" Tom adds, flashing her a thumbs up.

Sarah beams and skips over to a desk next to John, bouncing in her seat with barely contained energy when she sits down. John offers her a high-five, and she obliges.

"I'm just so happy!" she bubbles.

"I'll bet."

She's not the only one that week to get a girlfriend.

Francis slips into the seat next to John in Thursday homeroom simultaneously looking very serious and like an anxious puppy.

"I've decided I'm going to do it, Turtle Man," he informs John.

John frowns. "Do what?"

"I'm going to ask Millie out before break."

John's blood runs cold. "What?" he responds dumbly.

"Sometime today," Francis declares confidently, "I am going to ask out Mildred Walker." He holds the confident air for a second or so before sagging in his seat and compulsively tapping his foot.

"Holy shit, man," he groans, burying his head in his hands miserably. "Who am I kidding? I can't do this."

In that moment, John is hit by the tremendous amount of power he's just been given. In the face of Francis's self-deprecating comment, John has the opportunity to either encourage or dissuade him to be Millie's boyfriend — he has no doubt that if Francis asked, Millie would say yes. And they'd be happy, from what he can tell. But on the other hand, he obviously doesn't want Francis being with someone else. Or does he? It might make it easier to move on. Is he hoping he'll get up the courage to ask Francis out? Yeah, not happening.

He mentally braces himself and lays a hand on Francis's shoulder. "Hey. Francis. Forehead Guy."

Francis looks up at John. He's chewing his lower lip worriedly, and it's taking all of John's effort not to stare.

John clears his throat. "You got this."

Francis's grin makes it all worth it, if only for a moment. He surges out of his seat and yanks John into a hug.

"You're the best, Turtle Man."

John wants to scream.

He gets the story from Millie the next day when he goes to ask where Francis is (since it's a half day, he skipped to pack for his trip). She tells him, blushing all the way, how Francis tripped over his words before finally forming enough of a coherent thought that she realized what he was asking. She said yes immediately. John isn't surprised in the slightest.

Later, Mr. Paul Jones, very obviously suffering from a hangover, gives up trying to teach Math half way through class. John doodles for a bit before his phone buzzes.

[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] in the airport  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] taking 4eveeeer ugh  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] have a nice break!!!!

John quirks a smile and types a response. He stares at it for a solid five minutes, deciding whether or not he actually wants to send it, before deciding 'fuck it' and clicking send.

[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] Have fun! Kiss all the pretty Genevois for me!

The response is almost immediate.

[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] lol thats the male form i think :P

There was his out: claim it was an honest mistake and move on with his life. But… he kind of wanted to get at least part of this off of his chest.

[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] I know.  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] autocorrect amiright? lmao  
[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] It wasn't a typo.

The response takes a little longer this time, an anxiety-ridden three minutes and seventeen seconds that John definitely isn't counting.

[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] oh okay cool  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] is this why you didnt want 2 tell me about ur crush?  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] cuz thats totally ok man like im def not judging  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] i have a cousin whos bi  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] and like weve all seen rlly pretty guys amiright?? ;)  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] that came out rlly flirty sorry  
[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] Thanks, Francis.  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] no prob turtle man  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] have fun @ the party!!!  
[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] Have fun in Geneva!  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] will do!  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] byyyee  
[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] Bye, Forehead Guy.

That… could have gone worse.

[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] ;) ;) <3 <3 <3 xoxo  
[ **Text from: Forehead Guy** ] SHIT THAT WAS FOR MILLIE

It could have gone better, too.

* * *

John wakes up on Sunday to Mary trying to break into his room.

"Jack!" she cries desperately. "You have to come see! Now!"

John replies with an incoherent noise vaguely translating to, "I wasn't actually planning on waking up today, so being up before noon is certainly much too early."

"Jack! You _have_ to!" she insists.

He groans, bundling the blanket tighter around him. _Damn_ it's cold.

" _Jack_!"

"Fine! Just give me a sec to get dressed!"

He hates to leave the warmth of his bed, but he forces himself up, throwing on a pair of fleece-lined pants he hadn't appreciated until now, fuzzy socks, and about three sweaters — he's still shivering.

"Don't bring that inside!" Henry yells from the kitchen, an order followed by a pair of giddy laughs and thundering footsteps down the hall that mean Andre and Elias are definitely bringing whatever it is inside. A second later, they both skid to a halt just short of crashing into John, and Elias shoves something cold, wet, and white a centimeter under John's nose.

"Look!" he cries gleefully.

John rubs the sleep from his eyes, leaning away from the white stuff to get a better look.

He blinks. "Is that-"

"Snow!" Andre fills in. "Snow, Jacky!"

Elias grins, seemingly not noticing the snow melting in his hands. "We're gonna build a fort!" he informs John.

Henry appears at the end of the hall, scowling resignedly at the boys.

"Don't bring it inside," he sighs. "Jack, why don't you get some breakfast and take everyone outside?"

Breakfast sounds good. John nods, padding down the hall to the kitchen and getting a sock wet in the process. There are pancakes on the table and Hester is arguing with Mary over how much syrup she's allowed to have.

"Dad said he didn't care!" Mary pouts.

"He only said that because he was tired of telling you no."

"But he said he didn't care!"

John chuckles, grabbing a plate and some pancakes. "Can I have the syrup?" he requests, drawing back a chair and sitting down.

"I'm not done with it!"

Hester snatches it from her and hands it to John. "Yes, you are. You have more syrup than you have pancake."

Mary sticks out her tongue before digging into the pancakes. John follows suit, making "mmm" noises as he tastes them.

"Did dad make these?" he asks incredulously. Henry has less-than-superb talent in the kitchen unless it's an incredibly rudimentary recipe.

Mary shakes her head. "Eli and Andy got up early to do it!"

"Elias and Andre can make pancakes?"

"I helped," Hester yawns. "And by the way, by "early," she means 5:00am."

"I'm so sorry."

Elias and Andre storm down the hall again, whizzing past the table to nab a handful of pancakes each.

"Dad fefz yu'r takin' uff outfide!" Andre works in around the three pancakes stuffed into his mouth at once.

"Once we're all done with breakfast," John assures him. Elias and Andre scamper to the closet to retrieve the snow gear none of them had originally believed they'd really need. After breakfast, Hester makes sure everyone goes to the bathroom before they suit up. There's excitement all around, as none of them have seen snow up close and personal for years.

The first thing that hits John as they step outside is the solid white expanse before him; he's only ever seen stuff like this on postcards, and he can barely believe it's real. The second thing to hit him is the cold. He's incredibly thankful Henry insisted they get stuff for the snow.

While Hester is still standing beside him in similar awe, the others trample across the lawn, seemingly unfazed by the previous serenity.

"Come on!" Andre calls. "There's a huge field out by that old, abandoned school down the block!"

"We're gonna build the best snow fort _ever_!" Elias announces.

John chuckles and walks after them. Hester follows, blinking up in uninterrupted wonder at the white flakes fluttering down from the sky.

Elias, Andre, and Mary get to the field before them, and by the time they catch up, Elias and Andre are nearly done surveying the land and Mary has built about ten tiny snowmen.

"What've you got planned, guys?" John inquires, looking over the expansive field.

"Snow's pretty good," Elias comments.

Andre nods in affirmation. "So we're figuring we can shoot big."

"Start with an igloo, of course, gotta appreciate classic design."

"Then build a couple more curving around."

"Finish that curve with a wall, add a tunnel or so to get in and out."

"Maybe carve some Druid symbols somewhere."

"Haven't decided on that bit yet."

John whistles, but it comes out muffled past the scarf. "Wow. You sound like you've got it all figured out."

"We didn't get up at 4am to plan for nothing."

"Looks like someone got to our field first," muses a voice somewhere behind them.

"John?" asks another voice, this one familiar.

John turns to see Maria and four boys he doesn't recognize. "Maria? I didn't know you lived around here."

"Same goes to you! Are these your siblings?"

"Yeah. Who're these guys?" He looks over at the four boys. They're carrying sand toys, and one of them has a piece of rolled up blue paper poking out of his pocket.

"I'm John," the one with the blue paper introduces, "so one of us might want to come up with a nickname." He nods towards the three other guys. "This is Furze-"

"Robert," Furze corrects quietly.

"-Hardwick, and Freddy."

"Or you can call me Thomas," Hardwick offers.

"Are they here to make a fort, too?" questions Mary, appearing next to John. "Are we gonna fight? Eli said we might have to have turf wars."

Other John raises an eyebrow. "You were going to build a fort?"

"It's not a past tense matter," Andre informs him stonily.

"Is that a blueprint?" Elias asks, simultaneously accusingly and intrigued, pointing to the piece of blue paper.

Other John smirks, carefully removing the paper from his pocket and unrolling it to show the boys. "That it is. We come here to build a fort every year, so I came prepared."

"Why don't you guys go somewhere else to play?" Freddy suggests in annoyance.

Elias and Andre ignore him, instead leaning in to study the blueprint. They look at each other after a moment and nod, a silent agreement formulated.

"We have a proposition to make," Andre offers.

Other John raises his eyebrows in amusement. "Oh? And what's that?"

Hester inches closer, ready to defend the boys if need be.

"A collaboration," Elias elaborates.

"Your design is pretty good," Andre allows. "You obviously put some thought into it."

"It's missing some fundamental aspects, of course."

"Like an igloo."

"Igloos are very important."

Freddy is scowling and Maria and Hardwick are sporting 'aw, that's cute' expressions (Furze has started building tiny snowmen with Mary), but Other John looks willing to humor Elias and Andre.

He hums in thought. "Alright. Tell you what: tell me your plan, and we'll make something with the best parts of both."

"What?" Freddy gapes. "You're seriously listening to a couple of twelve-year-olds?"

"I'm thirteen," Andre protests.

"We already perfected the plans," Freddy reminds him angrily. "It would be stupid to change them."

"Aw, come on, Frederick," Other John laughs. "This is supposed to be fun."

Freddy scowls deeper. "Fine. Whatever. I'm going home."

"Wait, hold on," Other John calls after him as he starts trudging away. "This is tradition, you asshole, get back here!"

"That's a bad word," Mary tells him.

"Don't repeat it," Furze warns earnestly, although it's unclear whether he's speaking to Mary or Other John.

"Whatever," Other John grunts. "We don't need him." He turns back to Elias and Andre. "Alright, boys, if we're going to work together, I'm going to need to know everybody's names."

Andre grins. "I'm Andre. This is my brother, friend, and business partner Elias."

"That's Jack," Elias continues, "he's a teenager, which essentially sums up his personality."

John furrows his brow, but doesn't get a chance to protest before they continue.

"That's Hester. She's basically our mom."

"And that's Mary. She skipped second grade."

Mary looks up at the mention of her name. "I'm learning algebra!" she announces proudly.

"Sounds like a team," Hardwick decides, coming up next to Other John and grinning. "What've we got?"

Hours later, hours full of increasingly cold ankles, tiny snowmen, snow-related manual labor, many setbacks, Hester surreptitiously glancing at Maria every once in a while and blushing, and Elias and Andre further befriending Other John and Hardwick, the snow fort is finally complete.

The final result is impressive, to say the least. In the center are three igloo-type structures, built close together and linked by tunnels. They're surrounded by a wall with three holes to enter the igloos. Maria added crenelations to the top of the wall with the sand tools, and Mary and Furze populated it with tiny snowmen. Furze helped Mary make three bigger snowmen to post as guards by the entrances. It turns out that Other John knows a decent amount about Druid symbols, so he helped Elias and Andre carve some protective ruins.

When they're finally done, Hardwick collapses, claiming he's going to make a snow angel but eventually deciding he's too tired to move his limbs. Everyone else follows suit.

"Hey," pipes up John, whose socks have frozen. "Is it warmer in the igloos?"

He, Hester, Maria, and Furze decide to test the theory, the others claiming they're already warm from all the work. As it turns out, it's very slightly warmer in the igloos, but it's enough. John and Furze squeeze into one, Maria and Hester into another.

"Why haven't I seen you around school?" John asks Furze as he regains feeling in his (hopefully not frost-bitten) toes.

"You go to King's High School, right?"

John nods.

"I go to the art school downtown."

"Oh. How did you meet Maria?"

"We went to middle school together. She was going to go to the art school, but she was in France during registration, and then she made a bunch of friend's at King's High."

Speaking of Maria, John can hear her and Hester giggling in the next igloo over. After they all decide it's time to go home, she comes up to John, smiling.

"Your sister's really nice."

John looks over at Hester, who blushes, offers a shy smile, and turns away.

After pulling Mary off of Furze (her goodbye hug lasts about five minutes), the Laurens work their way home, tired and happy.

"What do you want to do next?" Elias asks excitedly.

John thinks a moment, then shakes his foot. "Change my socks."


	6. Party Don't Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "C'mon, you're the man!" she yells over the music. "Lead!"
> 
> Flustered, John complies.
> 
> "Oh, thank god," she laughs. "The last guy I tried that on gave me a speech about gender rolls!"

Christmas comes with an unspoken discomfort, as they usually spend the holiday with the Gardens. But of course, Henry doesn't allow that this year. John and Hester share many a comforting squeeze, often feeling like the only thing anchoring them down is each other.

According to family tradition, everyone else in the family collaborates to get each person a gift, so that each person gets one specialized gift to really cherish.

Mary gets an arts and crafts kit from Santa. She stopped believing in Santa when she was eight years old, but promptly decided to continue believing in him when she realized it made Christmas more fun. She uses the art kit to draw flowers and bushes and gardens, and everyone politely pretends not to see her looking pointedly at Henry when she shows him her drawings.  
Elias and Andre get a book on codes and ciphers each, and spend hours hidden away in their room studying. By the time they emerge, they have devised a spoken tongue that sounds suspiciously like an over-complicated variation of Pig Latin.

Hester gets a cookbook she's been eyeing for the past week or so, and temporarily overlooks her straining relationship with Henry to give him a hug. She makes French toast for breakfast the next morning, and everyone has more helpings than they really should.

John gets a book on anatomy. Henry gives it somewhat begrudgingly, as he seems to prefer that John become a lawyer rather than a doctor, but John appreciates Henry accepting his interests. He tries not to think about the disapproval he'd face in regards to some _other_ interests.

After much deliberation, John and his siblings had decided to get Henry a nice scarf. It's warm and soft, and will be useful as the weather remains cold. Henry accepts it with a large smile, pulling everyone into a big hug.

After Christmas, John continues his previous avoidance of his father. They skirt around each other until several days before New Year's, when John remembers to ask if he can go to Dolley's party.

"A lot of people from school are going to be there," he tells Henry, carefully wording the request to ensure permission. "I was hoping it could help me make some more friends."

Henry agrees, thankfully, and John tells him the party starts a little before it actually does so that he can get out of the house sooner rather than later.

On the day of the party, Henry drops him off and waves a cheery goodbye, evidently convinced he's doing something good for John's social life (which isn't wrong, the reaction just ticks John off for some reason).

A girl with messy brown hair pulled back into a clip answers the door just in time to see Henry's car pulling away.

"Is that a Confederate flag?" she demands, wrinkling her nose as she peers after the car.

"Unfortunately, yes," John sighs. "I can't get him to take it off. Uh, is this the right house?"

"You here for Dolley's party?"

John nods.

"Then yeah, you're at the right place. I'm Betsey," she introduces, holding the door further open to let him in. "I came early to help set up."

"John," he replies. "I came early to get out of the house, but I'm willing to help."

As he steps inside, he sees that "Happy New Year's!" banners have been hung up on the walls. The outskirts of the various rooms that will contain the party are lined with tables being filled with food by the various students who came to help, and there are chairs positioned periodically. The middle of each room has been cleared for a dance floor.

"John!" Dolley bubbles, coming over to him bearing a jar of cheese puffs in one arm and several bowls of snacks in the other. "Thanks for coming! Anything set up in the kitchen is fair game to go out on the tables."

"Right. Got it."

Betsey shows him where the kitchen is, although John gets the feeling she doesn't want to. He suspects she hasn't quite absolved him for his father's racism.

As John goes to set out some snacks, he notices Aaron in the corner on his phone.

"Uh, hey," he greets hesitantly, setting down the popcorn and pretzels he was holding. "Shouldn't you be helping set up?"

Aaron looks up. "I am! No one trusted me to set up snacks or the banners, and, well, rightfully so, if we're being honest, so I'm in charge of the playlist."

"Oh, cool. Any good songs?" It's a stupid question. No, Aaron intentionally used bad songs (note: sarcasm). But Aaron doesn't seem to mind.

"Truthfully, it doesn't matter what I pick. People will get ahold of the phone and change it, anyway. But yeah, I'm thinking some upbeat stuff like Happy. Sound good?"

"Yeah, nice."

Aaron nods as if in conformation, turning back to the phone to scroll through it. John isn't sure if further conversation is welcome, but he kind of wants to talk.

"So, uh, how many people is Dolley expecting?"

Aaron shrugs, not looking up. "I really have no clue. Probably a lot, but not a ridiculous amount. Anyone from the school's allowed to come, but it's anyone's guess who'll show."

"How many people were here last year?"

"Um… a lot? Didn't count, sorry."

John waves it off and heads back into the kitchen to grab more snacks. On the way out, he bumps into Betsey, nearly knocking her over.

"Watch where you're going!" she huffs.

"Sorry!" he yelps.

She scowls and stalks past him, and John decides he's had enough of the passive aggressiveness and is going to talk to her.

"Why do you hate me?" he asks, turning back around.

"I don't," she insists.

"Yeah, you do. You've known me barely ten minutes, but you do. Was it the flag?"

She hesitates. "Yes."

"Look," he sighs, "I have tried time and time again to get him to remove it, but he won't listen. Something about family heritage or whatever. He doesn't seem to get that it's not exactly acceptable to go around with that on the back of your car when you're in the north."

"Are you from the south?"

"Yeah."

She blinks. "Huh. You don't sound it."

"Well, my dad had ancestors in Europe, and my mom probably did, too, because she didn't have much of a southern accent, either, so I didn't really end up with one."

Betsey frowns. "Didn't?"

"What?"

"You said your mother _didn't_ have an accent. Is she, um…"

"Oh." John shuffles uncomfortably. "Uh, yeah. She died a couple years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

He hates it when people say that. He knows there's nothing better to say, he knows they're just trying to be sympathetic, but they usually don't know what he really went through, and it sounds empty. He plasters on a tight smile. "Yeah, well, like I said. Years ago."

They set up in silence for another five minutes or so with the others, but it's… well, not exactly a comfortable silence, but a less irrationally annoyed one. Finally, a knock on the door sends Betsey over to answer, letting a decently large group of people in.

"'Sup, bitches!" someone calls. "Who's ready to party?"

* * *

It doesn't take long for the party to get into full swing, and not much longer than that for John to realize what Aaron meant about not having much control over the playlist. Nearing the end of Party Rock Anthem, John notices two girls creeping not-so-subtly over to the phone plugged into the speakers. One of them, the one with dark, curly hair, who John has heard people call Raucourt (he's not sure if that's her real name), types something in and grins mischievously at the other girl, who's pretty and pink-cheeked. As the current song ends, the speakers project:

"Who died?"

"Our Akita"

About a fourth of the room jerks up their heads and responds, gleefully, "Evita!"

Next thing John knows, several people are standing on chairs, and one or two people on tables, and singing along to a song John has never heard in his life. It starts out slow, a mocking hymn, but then the music is rattling off more things than John can process. In fact, it just seems to be _things_ in general, which no correlation, and whenever John tunes into the lyrics, it's either incredibly relatable or entirely random.

Raucourt and the other girl start making out against a table at some point, and John quickly realizes that making out with someone is apparently part of some choreography most of the room knows. (He thinks he sees William push Benny up against a wall, but he quickly loses them in the crowd again).

At the line, "Brothers!" someone sashays past John and slaps his ass. He can't quite see who it is, but as they walk away, he notes that they're quite decidedly male and now the music is listing off random sexualities or something like that and John really needs to not be in this room.

He stumbles around the corner on the line, "To sodomy, it's between God and me!" and comes face to face with Millie.

"John!" she greets pleasantly.

"Uh, yeah, hi."

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Overwhelmed?"

His expression must betray that she's right, because she nods and takes his wrist gently, leading him a little farther down the hall to a door, which she opens.

"Where are we going?" John questions.

"Basement," she answers. "People usually go down here to make out, but since everyone seems to have decided they can just do that up here, it'll be quieter."

If John had had any solid expectations for the night, they did not include going to a make out spot with his crush's girlfriend. Not that anything's going to happen, it's just weird as hell to think about.

"I'm sure you'd be down here with Francis if he were here," he teases halfheartedly as they reach the bottom of the stairs, immediately regretting bringing up the subject.

Millie's face flushes pink. "Oh, I - well, I wouldn't - that is, we haven't - I haven't - I - I guess, maybe?" she stammers.

The music is muffled down here, but still audible. An upbeat song is blasting from the speakers, and the drumbeat throbs through the whole house.

"Sorry," he apologizes, "that - that wasn't any of my business."

"It's alright," she assures hastily, still pink.

John considers forcing more conversation, but decides instead to just sit down on the couch and breathe. His heartbeat seems to be thumping along with the drums, and some part of his brain has retreated safely away from the party, leaving him feeling murky and almost pleasantly disoriented. Maybe there's something in the punch.

"I think I'm going to head back upstairs," Millie informs him. "You'll be alright down here?"

John nods. Millie offers him a soft smile before returning to the party.

What the hell is he doing here? If he can't handle a party, why bother showing up? Well, usually he _can_ handle a party, but… he needs to work on not freaking out when stuff "hits too close to home." After all, it's not like he can perpetually avoid any and all references to homosexuality.

He stays down there for a bit until there's a noise around the corner and he peeks over to see that William and Benny made it down here before Millie and him did. Good for them, but John really doesn't feel like sticking around and dealing with the increasingly louder kissing noises.

He stands up and marches up the stairs, bracing himself before he turns the knob and opens the door. The music blasts against his ears and it's significantly hotter up here than it is downstairs. There's a buzzing in his head, convincing him not to touch the punch again, just in case.

Instead of heading back to the dance floor (he can dance pretty well, he's just easing himself back into the setting), he settles by a wall with a plate of chips.

"Not much for parties?" asks a voice next to him.

He turns to see Betsey. "Just needed a breather."

"I hear that."

Another song starts, and John notices Betsey's mouth twitch into a smile.

"Good song?" he guesses.

"Good memories," she corrects. "But good song by correlation."

He listens to the lyrics for a few seconds and can't for the life of him figure out what makes it a particularly good song. The rhythm is nice, but the lyrics seem to consist mostly (if not entirely) of "Wobble baby wobble baby wobble baby wobble."

Betsey glances over and sees his face.

"Don't listen," she suggests. "Watch. The joy of this song is watching at attractive person who knows the dance."

To John's surprise, she's right. There's no reason the dance should be particularly attractive, but it _is_ for some reason.

He notices the guy who slapped his ass earlier on the dance floor. He's got a square jaw and carefully arched eyebrows, with an expression of what John can only describe as flirty arrogance.

"Who's that?" he asks, nodding in the guy's direction.

"Brown-haired chick?"

"No, the guy next to her."

Although, the brown-haired girl is doing well, too. The difference between her dancing and the guy's is that he bears an intense expression of concentration, whereas she looks like she's having fun.

"Jean-Jacques-Régis," she replies, tripping over the name.

"I - I don't think that's how you pronounce it."

"Look, buddy, I don't take French. We just call him Jay-Jay. Ever watched Mean Girls?"

He frowns, the seemingly unrelated question throwing him off. "No?"

"Well, there's this character whose description is 'too gay to function.' That's Jay-Jay."

John isn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he elects to say nothing. Betsey doesn't betray any discomfort, so the two fall back into a neutral silence. Eventually, the music shifts back to things John at least vaguely knows as Aaron fights his way back to the front of the room to reclaim the phone.

Several songs later, "Happy" starts playing. John grins. Here's a song he not only knows, but also likes. He excuses himself (not that Betsey particularly seems to mind his departure, especially since he lets her have his chips) and makes his way to the dance floor.

Now, John can dance. He'd taken lessons when he was younger, and had learned a thing or two more at various schools. But that was mostly Ballroom dancing, that sort of thing, even a brief couple of Swing lessons. He quickly realizes that he has no idea what he's doing on the dance floor.

That's when the brown-haired girl who had been dancing to "Wobble" finds him. In the frenzy of the dance floor, she's suddenly in front of him, grinning broadly and grabbing his hands. Too confused to protest, John goes along with it, quickly falling into the pattern of the dance (he thinks it's a Swing).

"C'mon, you're the man!" she yells over the music. "Lead!"

Flustered, John complies.

"Oh, thank god," she laughs. "The last guy I tried that on gave me a speech about gender rolls!"

John smirks in response. The girl is friendly, warm, and he finds that he's comfortable with the dance despite barely knowing her.

"I'm John!" he tells her (whose idea was it to play the music this loud?) "John Laurens!"

"Martha!" she returns. "Manning!"

On a whim, he spins her around, and she flows right into the movement, laughing all the way. John hasn't done this kind of dance in a while, but dancing with Martha feels so natural that it hardly matters.

Someone finally turns the volume down a bit.

"You do this kind of thing often, John?" Martha asks as she comes around.

"What do you mean?"

"Find a random girl, show her a good time on the dance floor?"

"You found me," John corrects.

Martha tilts her head in a shrug. "Ehh, technicalities."

"So… do _you_ do this often?" he asks as the song comes to an end, leaning her into a dip.

She smirks. "Only for particularly pretty boys."

He frowns, realization setting in. She's flirting with him. Of course she is. He's about to let her off easy when the next song starts and she bounds off, tossing a wink over her shoulder.

John decides he's done with dancing for now.

* * *

John sees Martha again several times over the course of the night, but they don’t interact much. Martha stays out on the dance floor most of the time, seemingly having no limits to her energy. When John asks Betsey about it, she explains, “Yeah, she takes some dance class or something. I dunno, whatever it is, chick’s got abs of steel and endless stamina.”

John ends up on the dance floor a couple times, but… well, it’s not that he’s avoiding Martha, it’s just that he likes dancing, hell, likes dancing with Martha, but doesn’t want to have to explain to her why he’s not interested. Okay, so he’s avoiding her a little.

Somehow, he and Betsey find their way down to the basement (not for make-out reasons, obviously). It’s not empty anymore, but no one’s making out, either. Instead, a group of people with a card game John’s never seen before sit around in a circle, wheezing with laughter. There are 9 in total, including at least half of John’s art class, some theater kids, Aaron, and a dark haired girl who must be Theodosia, judging my how close to Aaron she’s sitting.

Probably-Theodosia looks up and notices John and Betsey. “Hey, guys, come join us, we just started!” she invites, waving them over.

“What are you playing?” John inquires.

“Cards Against Humanity,” Betsey fills in with a leering grin that makes John more than slightly worried what this game will entail.

“I, uh, I don’t know how to play that, sorry.”

“Oh, we’ll explain it,” Johnny insists. “It’s super easy, you’ll see.”

John sits down reluctantly between Betsey and Aaron as one of the theater guys, whom John decides to refer to as “Flatcap” (he’s wearing one), deals him some cards.

“Don’t look at them until we’ve explained,” Flatcap warns, barely containing a giggle.

Now John is really nervous.

“So,” Johnny starts. “Cards Against Humanity. Ever played Apples to Apples?”

John nods.

“Well, it’s a bit like that. Each black card has a fill in the blank of some sort, and you have to choose the funniest card from your hand to fill it in. If the judge picks your white card, you get the black card and win the round.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Right,” Marie agrees, taking up the explanation, “except that almost all of the cards are wildly inappropriate. And this is the set that was sitting in the senior lounge for a couple years, so most of the cards aren’t even originals.”

“They’re just as bad, though,” Johnny assures.

Curious and not a little wary, John takes a look at his cards. Sure enough, most of them are handwritten. He’s got _Yelling “No Homo!” when you hug your bro_ , _Puppies!_ , _A suspicious substance on the ceiling_ , _The smell of your Great Aunt’s farts_ , and _A third nipple_.

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

“I fucking love this game,” Betsey enthuses from next to him.

“Next card!” Flatcap announces, slapping a white card down into the middle of the circle. “ _A black-light to the back seat revealed spots in the shape of ______. Place your cards, people, I’m judge this round!”

John shuffles through his cards, eventually settling on _A suspicious substance on the ceiling_. He slides it onto the pile and, seeing everyone else do so, picks another card. _Sticking a Febreeze™ bottle up your ass_ , this one reads. John finds himself snickering despite the disturbing image.

“ _Uncle Sam’s Dick_!” Faltcap announces after sorting through the cards for a bit. Betsey cheers, claiming her card, and a couple other people boo Flatcap.

“Come on, Manny!” Sybil complains. “ _My overly hot theater teacher_ didn’t win? Do I even know you?”

Flatcap – Manny – shrugs.

“Next card!” Betsey yells. She grabs a black card and reads it aloud. “ _This year’s hit new game show _____, featuring ______.”

“Put down two cards in the order you want her to read them,” Aaron explains, seeing John’s confusion.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

John eventually goes with _Sticking a Febreeze™ bottle up your ass_ and _A third nipple_ , realizing that the only way to win this game is to be blatantly inappropriate. The winner for this round is George, with _My dick_ and _Incoherent screaming_ , but John still feels like he’s getting the hang of the game. His next two cards read _Bifi, the gaydar for bisexuality_ and _1000 Dick Island_.

“The card for this round is…” George reads the card and snorts. “ _What I wish my teacher would teach about in class_.”

John considers putting down Puppies!, but eventually decides on _Yelling “No Homo!” when you hug your bro_. George nearly falls over laughing the second he sees it.

“Oh god, yes!” he guffaws. “If only I had been warned in school!”

John claims his black card with a grin and chooses a white card. “ _I didn’t get a brother OR a sister. I got ______.”

After a moment or so, everyone’s cards are in. The cards read: _Flaming Gays from Hell_ (John’s probably not going with that one), _Our robot overlord, the next president_ , _A half-assed sloppy Joe_ , _Crippling Depression_ (too real), _A make-out session with the nurse_ , _Boobies_ , _Regret_ , _Used tissues that never touched my nose_ , _Two dead babies in clown suits_ (definitely not, what the fuck), and _The judge_.

“Huh.” He flips through the cards again, eventually deciding on “ _Our robot overlord, the next president_. Whose was it?”

Theodosia raises her hand, grinning widely. “Mine!” she squeals, claiming the black card.

“Nice, babe,” Aaron congratulates.

“Not as good as James,” Theodosia reminds him.

“Well, duh,” Aaron agrees. “Nobody’s as good as Jemmy at Cards Against Humanity.”

“Dude’s, like, a straight-up whiz at it,” Johnny explains. “Sure, he’s got that whole shy exterior going on, but I’ve seen him put down _Fucking the bottle of wine that Grandma was saving for Chrismas_ while making direct eye-contact.”

Betsey whistles in appreciation.

“He wins every game he plays,” Marie adds. “And I think he added the card _A branch of government dedicated to prostitutes_.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Unexpected.”

“Not if you get to know him,” Aaron posits.

The game continues on, with John doing surprisingly well for it being his first game. At 11:57 PM, he, Betsey, Manny, and Theodosia all have four black cards.

“This could be the winning round, folks!” Marie announces, then reads, “ _Dogs. The perfect gifts for someone with a crippling fear of ______.”

Finally, John has excuse to use his _Puppies!_ card. Marie sorts through the cards, and eventually chooses, “ _Puppies!_ Who put it down?”

“Yes!” John whoops, claiming the card.

“Are you sure that was your first game?” Betsey accuses playfully.

John nods innocently (or, at least, as innocently as one can look after winning _The best thing to shove up your ass_ with _My long lost cousin_.) “First time ever. It’s a lot of fun, thanks for introducing me to it.”

Johnny grins. “Of course! Oh, shit, what time is it?”

Sybil checks her watch. “11:58.”

“We’re gonna miss the ball drop!” Marie frets, grabbing Johnny and tearing upstairs.

Oh, right. New Year’s party. Ball drop. John may have grown up down south, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t used to watch the ball drop every year that his dad let him stay up.

The group disperses quickly, scrambling upstairs and leaving the cards to be gathered later. John glances back, sees _Kissing your dog at midnight_ , smiles, and makes his way up to the party.

* * *

Someone arranged a bunch of couches and chairs in layers around the TV. John manages to grab one of the comfier chairs before someone else gets it, but only because everyone else is too focused on the television. He glances at the clock: 11:59. Less than one minute until midnight.

"Hey," greets a voice behind him.

He starts, turning around to see who it is. Martha has popped her head over the top of the chair, and is grinning cheekily at him.

"Hi," John returns cautiously.

" **TEN!** " the room booms.

"You got someone to kiss?"

" **NINE!** "

Oh, shit, shit, shit. This wasn't going to end well.

" **EIGHT!** "

"Uh, no. Do you?"

" **SEVEN!** "

Martha smirks. "Are you offering?"

" **SIX!** "

"What? Oh, I - I was just wondering.

" **FIVE!** "

"Right, of course." The way she's looking at John makes him nervous. She's pretty, that's for sure, and under different circumstances, he might have been interested. But, well, she's a girl.

" **FOUR!** "

"You were great out on the dance floor," he compliments, hoping to change the topic.

" **THREE!** "

She brightens. "Thanks! You were, too. Shame you disappeared, I'd've loved to dance some more."

" **TWO!** "

"Oh, I was… in the basement." He realizes it sounds like he was making out with someone, but he doesn't really care.

" **ONE!** "

"Happy New Year," Martha tells him, and suddenly she's skirted the chair and she's perched on the arm and she's kissing him and John's brain is on shutdown.

No one yells "Happy New Year!" They're too busy making out.

John finally comes to his senses enough to pull away, staring at Martha in a sort of… shock? Something like that.

Martha returns the look with another grin. "Hey, it's New Years. I like you, you don't seem to hate me –"

"I'm gay." It slips out with him meaning to say it. He freezes.

Martha's eyes widen. "Wow. Wow I misjudged that."

John begs his brain to catch up to the conversation. "Uh, sorry."

"No, I – _you're_ sorry? _I'm_ sorry. I – oh, jeez. Oh my god, I didn't mean to –"

"It's – it's fine."

"You seem like a cool guy, though. Do you, like, wanna be friends, or something?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds nice."

There's an awkward pause, punctuated by various kissing noises around the room.

"I am so fudging sorry," Martha apologizes again.

John breaks down laughing. He can't help it. There's a sheer irony in having a girl be interested in him just after he realizes he's not interested in girls. She joins in with a nervous giggle that implies she's not sure what else to do.

"I'm, uh, guessing this is a first for you?" John wagers.

She rolls her eyes. "Hon. I take dance classes. It most certainly is not."

John glances behind Martha and sees Betsey giving him two enthusiastic thumbs up. She's leaning against Nathan, who, by the look of the car keys in his hand, just drove in to pick someone up (maybe Betsey?), and John has to admit that they make a weirdly cute couple.

"You doing anything tomorrow?" Martha asks.

"I was planning on lying in bed an avoiding my family," John admits. "Why?"

Martha shrugs. "Do you wanna hang out? It's supposed to snow again, so my dance class is cancelled."

"Uh, yeah, sure," John agrees. He catches sight of a pad of sticky notes by the TV. "I'll give you my address, hang on."

He returns a moment later with the notes and pen (it was stuck behind the TV), and scribbles out his address for Martha. She smiles and takes the pen to write her own note.

"If you're ever in need of a good dance session," she offers, finishing whatever she's writing, "call me." With that, she sticks the note onto John forehead and winks playfully (although not flirtily, John notes).

As if on cue, John's cell rings in his back pocket. He fishes it out, glancing at the screen.

[ **Text from: Henry** ] I'm outside. You ready to go?

Just like his dad to come right at midnight. He flashes the screen at Martha by way of explanation.

"Ah," she notes. "The Cinderella coach awaits."

"I should go," John apologizes. "He's posing it like a question, but he's really not gonna want to wait."

"Nice getting to know you, John," Martha calls after him as he gets up to leave. "See you tomorrow!"

He quirks a smile. "See ya!"


	7. Mad Mattie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jacky-o," Martha repeats, grinning. "Jacky." She turns to John. "Hon, I hope you realize I'm never calling you 'John' again."
> 
> "And I made it so far without needing a nickname," John sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would a story about John Laurens be without Martha Manning?
> 
> OR
> 
> There was so much angst, I really just needed a chapter where people giggle a lot.
> 
> EDIT: I fixed the ages for John and his siblings, because apparently I can't do simple math.

At about 2:15AM, John realizes that he just had his first kiss.

He's not entirely sure why he didn't notice it before. Probably because he had been caught up in the confusion of the moment and hadn't until now gotten a chance to think about it. It's... a lot less exciting than he'd been led to expect, what with all those movies and books and whatnot that glorify first kisses so much. Sure, there was some excitement of sorts in the moment, but at 2:30AM when he's inexplicably still awake, it's all a bit... meh. Just a thing that happened.

2:45. He wonders if Francis is up.

2:48. A quick internet search reveals that the time difference between New York and Geneva is six hours.

2:51. 8:51 is a reasonable time to text someone, right? But what to text? Actually, he probably shouldn't. Better to avoid contact for a bit and try to get over this stupid crush.

2:52.

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** So William and Benny finally got together.

By 3:00AM, John has no answer and many, many regrets. He shouldn't have done that, it was a dumb—

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** FUKCIN FINALY  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** also i jus did the math  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** u made me do math ovr brek. y  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** anyway its 3. go 2 sleep

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Too wound up from the party.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** O YEAH  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** how was it???

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Weird. Mostly good weird.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** ??????????????

[ **Text to: Forehead Guy** ] Unexpected midnight kiss.

Wait. Why is he telling Francis about that? Maybe he _should_ go to sleep.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** was it jay jay

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Actually, no. But I wouldn't have been surprised.  
**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Do you know Martha Manning?

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** wat srsly???  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** mad mattie  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** the literal dancin queen  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** dude

John considers answering with his own string of question marks, but eventually goes with  
**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Yes.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** DUDE  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** im like 98% certain that means u have sic moves on the dance floor  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** she kinda has a type  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** u didnt tell me u culd dance?????

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** It... never came up?

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** DUDE

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Hah. Well, maybe I can show you Monday.

It's only after he hits send that he realizes how much it sounds like flirting. He's still trying to figure out how to take it back when he gets a reply.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** ya probs not gonna b there

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Why not?

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** sum distent cusin died or somethin ?? so im gonna b in  
savanah 4 a bit

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** I'm so sorry.

He knows it's not a particularly comforting sentiment, but he can't think of anything else.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** man ive nevr met her b4  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** im not rely hung up abot this

Ah.

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Ah.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** yeh

 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Ok. Goodnight, Forehead Guy!

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** lol its mornin 4 both of us  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** gn!

John forces himself to shut off the phone, plug it in, and try to go to sleep. Which means, as usual, that his mind is running rampant. Thought of the moment: he'd normally find Francis's way of texting really annoying, but when Francis does it, it's almost endearing. Ugh. He really needs to get over this stupid crush.

At 3:26AM, it somehow seems like a good idea to compile a mental list of reasons he likes Francis. 1) He's funny. 2) Ummm... he's unexpectedly smart. 3) He's... confident? 4) He's cute. 5) Okay, well, _John_ thinks he's cute. 6). 6)...? 6) ????????

Okay, _Tom_ fits most of those criteria. _Nathan_ fits them. John could probably think of at least twenty guys who fit those criteria.

So why Francis?

And then, at 3:33 AM, it hits him; he has a crush on Francis because Francis was there. Francis was there when John's brain finally hit the tipping point and decided that the only way John was going to figure out his sexuality was if he got a crush on a guy. It explains why he fell so fast for Francis before even knowing that much about him.

Come to think of it, John really should have figured it out before Francis came along. Alex Jr., for one thing, should have been an indicator; in retrospect, John definitely had a crush on him. And in 4th grade, John had realized that he could easily picture himself marrying a guy, but had quickly pushed the image out of his head and refused to think about it again. He'd never been that interested in girls, even when the rest of his male classmates finally got over their fear of cooties and started pursuing girlfriends. At the time, John would have credited his lack of interest to his mother's worsening illness, but that was only a very small part of the reason. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how long he's been in denial.

3:51. He contemplates that Francis may never know the role he played in John's life.

3:52. Shit, he keeps forgetting Francis knows he's gay.

4:02. He's not looking at the clock anymore. He's finally gone to sleep.

* * *

_"Come out, come out, wherever you are..."_

_It's Martha singing, and for some reason, she sounds like Beyoncé. In the dream world, John disregards the lyrics and recognizes the song as "Happy."_

_"Why?" John asks, except that now he's communicating through interpretive dance._

_Martha continues singing, and they are suddenly dancing together._

_The Munchkins come out of the woodwork in a literal sense. John sees Francis's, Tom's, and Nathan's faces in the crowd, as well as those of some of his other classmates. Everyone has red hair._

_"Jacky, Jacky, Jacky," they chant with one voice._

_His siblings are in the crowd now, chanting along._

_"Jacky?" Martha questions from in the hall,_ and suddenly John realizes that she's asking in real life and what the hell is Martha doing in his house?

He looks at the clock, which reads a little after 12. He probably got about six hours of sleep. Not bad, he's functioned on far less.

Mary's calls of "Jacky!" creeps closer to his room, and any second, she’s going to start pounding on his door. John scrambles out of bed and throws on the first thing he finds, brain still too sleep-addled to figure out what's going on.

He thrusts open the door just as Mary was about to knock, sending her toppling into him. She looks up, sporting a Cheshire grin.

"Your _girrllfrrieend's_ here!" she sing-songs.

Wait.

What?

Andre appears at the end of the hall and wriggles his eyebrows gleefully at John. He's followed shortly by Elias, who looks far less interested in this development.

"Lunch is ready," Elias tells John. "Well, I guess for you it's breakfast. Brunch?" he asks Andre.

"Brunch," Andre agrees, then, to John, "with your girlfriend."

"What." John still has no idea what's going on, and his confusion is not helped _in the slightest_ by Martha joining them at the opening of the hallway.

"John," she greets, a hint of sheepishness on her features. "Um. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Andre cannot wolf-whistle, but he sure as hell tries as Martha drags a very confused John back into his room.

"What the hell," John demands, simultaneous with Martha's insistent, "I can explain."

John folds his arms over his stomach, partially because it's a good stance to indicate that he's waiting for an explanation, and partially because he's _hungry_.

"Okay," Martha begins, taking a breath. "So, first of all, I didn't tell them that I was your girlfriend. I came over to see if you were home, and your brothers answered the door, and one of your brothers—Andy, is that his name?—called me that, and I didn't exactly... deny it."

John stares at her, willing her to continue so that he can leave and get food already.

"Right. Um. Also. I accidentally let slip to my parents that I kissed you, and they're super strict, and they would have been super pissed if they found out I kissed a guy I hardly know, so I, um, I told them that you're my boyfriend."

"Okay."

She blinks. "Okay? Seriously? Okay, like—"

"Okay like, 'I understand that this is a thing that happened,'" he interrupts, "not like, 'I am accepting that this is a thing that happened'."

Martha's face drops like she's waiting for him to yell at her for doing something really stupid. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

John sighs, cutting her off. "Martha, I just woke up. I haven't even had anything to eat yet. Give me time to process."

"Right, yeah, okay," Martha agrees hastily. Her eyes flick down to his chest. "Nice shirt," she snickers, more like she's not sure what to say and less like she's actually interested in teasing.

He looks down, honestly not sure what he's wearing. The shirt features a cartoon Hedwig looking pretty out of it and wearing a cooking pot on it's head. The caption reads "Pot(ter)head." He's not sure why he even owns this, or where he got it, but he notes that Francis would probably like it.

Ugh. He needs to stop thinking of Francis.

"Food," he grumbles.

He opens the door and trudges down the hall, Martha following quietly.

Breakfast—lunch, whatever (brunch?)—is a heavenly egg stir-fry thing that Hester cooked up. Hester greets John kindly enough, but keeps eyeing Martha warily. John feels suddenly and guiltily like he's broken a pact of solidarity. Martha hums appreciatively into a bite of egg, eyes widening.

"This is _really_ good," she compliments.

Hester seems surprised and pauses, unsure what to say, before muttering, "Thank you."

Martha blinks, not expecting the cold response, then meekly returns to her food.

With more food in his stomach, John tries to figure out how to gently inform Martha what a god-awful idea this is. He gets the strict parent thing, but can't she just tell her parents they broke up or something? And what is he getting out of this, anyway? He doesn't like the idea of lying to his family—wait, shit, he's kind of doing that anyway. But that's different, Henry would probably disown him if he came out. His hand tightens on his fork as he digests for the first time that getting kicked out of the house is quite possibly a very real possibility.

Martha nudges him in the shoulder. "You okay?" she whispers.

She's known him for what, 12 hours now? How can she read him that easily? Is he seriously that much of an open book?

"Yeah," he assures her.

Before she can say anything else, Henry (think of the devil), walks out of his office and into the kitchen.

"Ah, good," he comments, "Mary got you up." There's a smile in his eyes as he walks around the table to tousle John's hair. "I was starting to think you'd never bring a girl home, Jacky. Turns out I just had to wait for her to bring herself, huh?"

Jack freezes.

Henry had noticed his lack of interest in girls. Hell, Henry had probably noticed before John had. And now that he thought John had a girlfriend, he looked almost relieved; how would he look if John told him it was a sham? What straight guy passes up the chance to date a pretty girl because they're "just friends"? Actually, for all he knows, that'd be perfectly fine, but he doesn't know, because he's _not a straight guy_.

Martha fills in his silence with something like, "He's not really awake yet," but he's not listening, focused instead on breathing. Martha glances at John, and maybe she's not all that great at reading him, because she starts saying, "But I'm not actually—"

"The one who brought herself here!" John interrupts before he realizes that, wait, that doesn't even make sense. "I-I mean, she did bring herself here, unless—did your parents drive you?—no but what I mean is, she didn't, like, come out of the woodwork, I invited her, well, I mean—"

"Hey Jacky," Elias cuts in, "you're doing a great job of defining 'tongue-tied'."

Andre giggles. "It's because of his _girl_ —"

"Dude, it's not that funny," Elias interrupts.

Andre whirls to stare at Elias. John's glad that the attention's off of him, but he could cut the tension in the room with a knife; Andre and Elias hardly ever disagree on anything, which means that when they do, things get way too heated way too fast.

"What?" Andre croaks.

Elias shrugs. "You're just being kind of immature. I mean, it's not that big a deal, so I don't get why you keep acting like it's some huge joke."

"You'll understand when you're older," Andre snaps. He scoots his chair away from Elias and glares into his eggs, shoving them around the plate with his fork.

Elias looks shocked for a moment, then opens his mouth to retort with something equally biting, if not more so.

"So nice of you to join us for lunch, dad!" Hester interjects before Elias can say another word.

Henry, looking around and seeing a train wreck on either side of him, decides to get the hell away from the train tracks. "I... actually should get back to work," he apologizes, then claims his plate of stir-fry and scurries back off to his office.

"Who wants more eggs!" Hester yelps, shoving back her chair to get up before anyone can respond and practically diving to the fridge to get more ingredients.

"What just happened," Martha mutters to no one in particular, and John realizes that she doesn't have any context.

Andre and Elias are so often mistaken for twins that it's easy to forget that they're not, even for the rest of the family. With Andre in eighth grade and Elias in seventh, it's a running joke what will make them end up in the same grade—Andre getting held back for chronic misbehavior (never mind how ridiculously smart he is), or Elias getting bumped up for excessive smarts (never mind his frequent, however subtle, pranks) (The punchline is that it was actually Elias and Mary who ended up in the same grade). But a couple of years ago, it wouldn't have been a joke; no one could imagine Elias speaking above a mumble in class, and it was all Henry could do to keep Andre from getting expelled. Andre was eight. Elias was almost seven. They were brothers in only a technical sense, wouldn't talk unless they were fighting, wouldn't even do the same activities—in fact, Elias didn't learn how to ride a bike until years later, because that was _Andre's_ thing, and he was going to do his _own_ thing (that being roller skating).

And then Eleanor was diagnosed with breast cancer. Diagnosed much, much too late. Everything pretty much went to hell for a while. They tried to keep it together for Eleanor, but everything came pulling apart at the seams. John got into fights at school weekly at the _least_. Hester hardly left her room and wouldn't talk to anyone. Andre notched his hobby of pissing teachers off up to extremes. Elias wouldn't go to school, and if forced to do so anyway, wouldn't show up for class, would hide in the stairwells, or, once or twice, on the roof. Even Mary, only very nearly six, felt the effects of the heavy atmosphere, and it wasn't unusual to hear her crying around corners. They only got worse when Eleanor died a little over two years later. Henry forced John to go to therapy, coerced Hester into going, too, tried to be there to comfort Mary. Andre and Elias found each other. No one knows quite how it happened, maybe not even them, but they started finding solace in each other. Ever since then, they're been inseparable. And despite all the pranks that come out of it, all the crazy schemes that tend to go awry, it's been good for them. Andre is more tame in class, Elias's confidence has improved by leaps and bounds, that sort of thing.

They so rarely fight that it's jarring when they do. None of them talk about it, but John knows that they're all getting little flashbacks to that time when the wounds were still fresh.

"Don't ask," John advises Martha.

* * *

There's not enough snow on the ground for a fort, but it's still more than John or any of his siblings are used to. Still, Hester insists that some fresh air is in order, and Martha (who didn't bring any snow pants) agrees.

"How are you not freezing?" John asks her once they're outside.

She wearing a long-sleeve shirt, coat, and pants tight enough that they might just be thick leggings. It's at least two layers less than the rest of them. She shrugs. "I lived in London when I was little. The sun practically doesn't exist there. I'm fine."

"Can you do a British accent?" Mary asks her excitedly.

Martha grins. "'Course I can!" she replied, with a London accent. "Only reason I don't normally is 'cause I've lived here so long. My mum and dad still talk like this, too."

Mary laughs, delighted. "Do you have tea a lot?"

"Mary, don't be ridiculous," John chastises at the same time as Martha replies, "Yup, tons."

Mary gives John a pointed look and skips away. John raises his hands in surrender.

"I mean," Martha continues (in an American accent, this time, although John can hear the English undertones now that he's listening for it), "I drink coffee more often, but my mother is a firm believer in tea."

"How'd you end up in America?" John asks.

"My dad got a good job offer," Martha replies with a shrug. "We lived in Boston for a bit before moving to New York, and lemme tell ya, this place is a _sauna_ compared to that."

"For my supposed girlfriend," John muses, "I really don't know much about you."

Martha's face wavers like she's going to apologize again, but instead she says, "Alright. Q&A time. Get to know your fake SO. Hey, that's got a ring to it!"

John laughs. "Okay, uh... why 'Mad Mattie'?"

"Ah." Martha nods. "Nickname from dance. I do a lot of competitions, and somewhere along the line someone started calling me that because apparently I'm really intense when I dance competitively. Guess it stuck. Out of sheer curiosity, who called me that?"

"Francis." And at this point, John is pretty sure his face only heats up out of habit. He tries to surreptitiously duck his head so that Martha doesn't notice, but the way she purses her lips tells him it's a fruitless effort.

"Okay," she continues, "my turn. Who's Francis, and why did you agree to fake-date me if you've got your eye on someone?"

“I - I don’t -” John stops, sighs. “He’s already got a girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure he’s straight.”

“Does he know you like him?”

“Oh, god no. He didn’t even know I’m…” he glances up ahead at his siblings, suddenly worried someone will overhear, “... _you know_ , until recently. Also, you just asked three questions. This is not how ‘taking turns’ works.”

“Gotcha. Okay, next question: who is that guy, and why is he grinning at us?”

“What?”

"Well, well, well," a drawling voice calls out. John looks up to see, as he should probably have predicted, Other John, strolling casually across the field with him posse in a way that John is starting to suspect is a very manufactured sort of ‘cool’. "Guess we beat you this time, huh, Jacky-o?"

"Jacky-o," Martha repeats, grinning. "Jacky." She turns to John. "Hon, I hope you realize I'm never calling you 'John' again."

"And I made it so far without needing a nickname," John sighs.

"Mad Mattie?" Maria asks, coming up alongside Other John. "Don't tell me you mysteriously live around here, too."

"Nah, I live like a mile that way." Martha sticks her thumb back in a seemingly random direction. "I'm here for John."

Maria looks back and forth between the two of them as John tries to subtly change his stance to imply 'couple'. He's confident it isn't conveying anything and that he's being entirely paranoid about how he's standing, but hey, couldn't hurt, right? Wait, should he, like, grab Martha's hand or something? What does he do??

Thankfully, Maria pieces it together by herself. Her eyes widen. "Oh. My. God. The party. You two...? I knew it. I knew it! Oh my god, John, she was eyeing you all night! Good for you two!"

"Um."

"Okay, but like, rule: you're not allowed to be as disgusting as John and Eliza. It's a rule."

At the mention of Eliza, who is presumably Other John's girlfriend, Other John's eye light up.

"Oh, you mean Eliza Smith?" he asks, somewhere between intentionally annoying Maria and actually having hearts in his eyes. "The light of my life? You mean her? Oh she's just - "

He never gets to finish the sentence, because Thomas chooses then to nail him in the back of the head with a snowball.

"Dude," Thomas remind him. "Rules."

After that, it's all out war.

Before John knows what's happened, they've split up into five very unlikely pairs, each huddled behind make-shift snow walls. The walls were impromptu enough that they sort of just appeared, and John has very little memory of building anything, or of how the teams formed, but he would like an explanation.

For one thing, Martha and Hester are working together. This is both surprising and relieving, but even more surprising and much less relieving is how well they seem to work together. Martha has a very good arm, he soon discovers after ducking just in time, and Hester has a ridiculously good eye, spotting people the second they pop over a barricade. Although no points are being tallied, they appear to be winning.

Somewhere off to his side, Other John and Mary ended up huddled behind a wall together. Other John, if anything, seems highly impressed by Mary, who slingshots both snowballs and minor insults (although, the way she says "stinkfart," John's not so sure it's a minor insult) with the best of them. People tend to underestimate Mary, but she's one of the most functional 11-year-olds John knows.

Elias and Andre have ensured they are not paired up. Elias is teamed with Maria, and they'd probably be doing pretty well if it weren't for two things: 1) Maria is far less invested in the snowball fight than Elias, and 2) Elias is, as John hears Maria muttering, "and angry ball of salt." As for Andre, he's fighting alongside Thomas, who is alternately dishing out volleys of snowballs and making confused expressions at Maria.

John is stuck behind a snow wall with Furze, who is much more talkative than expected.

"Real talk, though," Furze asks, ducking Martha's latest attack. "What's up with your school?"

"What's are you talking about?" John stands up long enough to lob a return volley towards Hester and Martha, and gets clipped in the ear by Thomas for his efforts. Furze yanks him back down.

"I mean, they just lump people into classes regardless of grade. What public school does that?"

He's right. John's gotten used to it at this point, but it did take some adjusting when he first transitioned. Tom is a senior. Peggy, in his Health class, is a Sophomore, if he remembers correctly.

He shrugs in response, then reaches over to pack another snowball. "I mean, it works. I'm getting an education. Sure, it's unconventional, but you go to art school. Aren't those kind of inherently weird?"

"Be honest, you're jealous."

"Yeah, a little."

Furze grins. "You have a point, though. My photography class once let us loose in Central Park - with partners, of course - to photograph anything we wanted to. No requirements. Just, wandering. And right before break? My friend Will needed help finishing a project for our architecture course. I literally skipped an English class to build tiny prisons."

John jumps up, hurls his snowball, misses, and nearly gets hit in the face by Mary's return attack. As he gets back down, he's going to reply, "Wow," to Furze's story, but Furze is already talking again.

"Your little sister is awesome. She's what, 10?"

"11," John corrects.

"11, right." Furze frowns. "Wait. Hold up. What the heck."

"What?"

"Okay, she's 11. How old are the boys, 13?"

"They're not twins," John explains. "Elias is 12, Andre's 13."

"And Hester is... 15? Right?"

"Near - wait, yeah, she is."

"Okay, wait, and you're 17 - "

"Where is this going?"

Furze packs a loose snowball, tosses it from hand to hand, looks John in the eye. "Jack. Did you parents ever, like, _stop_ having sex?"

John isn't sure what face he's making, but he hopes it's suitably disgusted. "I. Uh. It's not exactly something I like to think about."

"Okay, that's fair. But seriously, like, a couple of rabbits, how did they even -"

"Oh my god please stop."

Furze raises his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, I'm just saying - no, never mind. Hey, you haven't recklessly popped over the wall in at least a minute. Is there a secret plan I should know about?"

"And you've barely thrown anything this whole time," John counters, wondering when Furze got so sarcastic.

"Okay, also fair. Hey, man, go for the glory shot, why not? No other chance, no other way, no day but today, and all that."

John gives him a look. "What?"

The grin slides right off Furze's face as he realized that John actually doesn't know what he's talking about. "Jack. Rent? Please tell me you know Rent."

John shakes his head.

"Okay, so you've heard Seasons of Love, right? 525,600 minutes... oh my god, no? Seriously?? THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE."

He's yelling down, but at least he's leaned back so he's not doing it directly in John's face.

"YOU'VE NEVER SEEN RENT. I CANNOT STAND FOR THIS. MARTHA -" here he stands up, "- TELL YOUR BOYFRIEND TO - oh wow would you look at that, right in the chest, nice shot! - WATCH RENT, YOU NEED TO MAKE HIM WATCH IT, THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE."

There's a pause as Furze dusts the snow off his front, and then Martha pokes her head above the fort wall. "Wait, seriously?"

John chucks a snowball at her which she dodges at the last second. He throws his hands up in exasperation. "Can someone please explain to me what's going on? What's the big deal?"

"THE BIG DEAL -" Furze is cut of by Mary jumping up and angrily shushing him. "- oh my gosh, sorry," he whispers sheepishly. "I got kind of excited."

Other John peeks up over his wall. "Uh, have we abandoned fortress tactics? 'Cause I'm here for all out barbarian war tactics, but less chit-chat guys, come one, this is serious business."

“I second the motion for a more Barbarian approach!” Thomas calls, clamoring over the snow wall and wrecking it in the process. “EVERY MAN FOR - oh wait sorry - EVERY PERSON FOR THEIRSELF!”

Thus begins the second half of the snowball fight, which is much more exhausting than the first, but also too fun for anyone to complain about it. John find himself briefly back to back with Martha, who leans back and asks, “Have you really never seen Rent?”

“No,” John scowls. “I really haven’t.”

“Huh. I just kind of assumed everyone at King’s High had watched it. I’ve never seen a school with such a large Tracie Thoms fanclub.”

“Who?”

“Okay, so basically… um. You might want to turn around.”

John already knows it’s not going to be good. He turns to see that the snowball fight has stopped around him, all but a single focus point; Andre has toppled Elias over and is aiming a snowball right at his face, breathing heavily and seeming legitimately angry.

“Is it just me,” Martha asks, “or are your brothers taking this way too seriously?”

“So this is what it’s come to?” Elias yells. “Brother will betray brother to death? Lay down your arms!”

Martha stifles a laugh - badly - and clamps a hand over her mouth to avoid bursting out giggling. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “I think he just quoted the bible. Oh my god.”

“I - I really have no explanation,” John apologizes.

At this point, the boys are conversing in the Pig Latin-eque language they concocted over Christmas, so John only catches bits and pieces of what’s going on. Something about “betrayal,” “lying,” “brotherhood,” “cold” (he’s not sure if it’s meant literally or metaphorically), and, unless he’s wrong, “Elsa.”

“Should we break it up?” Maria asks, coming up next to Martha.

“I’m honestly not sure,” John replies.

The Whatever-The-Hell-Is-Happening reaches another climax of yelling, and then everything is very, very quiet. Finally, Andre drops the snowball, stands up, and helps Elias to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, then engulfs Elias in a hug.

“Whoo-hoo!” Thomas cheers. “Or not, if no one’s gonna join me in that! Cool, cool, just make me look like an idiot, that’s fine, whatever.”

John smiles.

* * *

“Um. The description on this is… depressing. At best.”

Martha scoots her chair closer to the computer and nudges John with her shoulder to try and get at the mouse. John elbows her back and reads aloud: “‘The story follows a group of scrappy bohemians who face true love, broken hearts, drug addiction and AIDS -- and paying rent to high-powered oppressors.’ Martha. This sounds awful. Why do I need to see this?”

“Because it’s the greatest thing you will ever see,” Martha insists. She gives up trying to shoulder her way to the mouse over John’s arm and slides her hand under the arm John is using to block her, grabbing John’s hand over the mouse and making him click play.

“Hey!”

“Shhh, it’s starting.”

John stops complaining. Over the course of the next two hours, he laughs, cries, and generally emotes far more than he’d expected to today. When the movie ends, he stares silently at the screen for a minute, processing.

Martha grins at him. “So?”

He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and turns to face her. “How are you not crying right now?”

“I’ve watched this like seven times. I’ve learned to cry on the inside.”

“That’s so sadistic.”

“I can’t hear Collins singing if I’m sobbing.”

John frowns. “I… okay, that’s kind of a weird but good point.”

“Also, on a less depressing note, I’ve been bugging my dance teacher for forever to let me do something to _Tango Maureen_ , but so far it’s a solid ‘no’.”

An idea occurs to John. He opens up youtube and cues up _Tango Maureen_ , then shuffles the things on his floor around until there’s about as much open space as he’s going to get. He skips to the middle of the song and offers a hand to Martha.

“What are…? Oh. Jack. Honey. There’s not room.”

“And yet, you’re smiling,” John notes.

“And getting up,” Martha adds, doing so.

It’s not the smartest idea for a number of reasons. For one thing, John doesn’t know much about tangoing. For another, Martha’s entirely right in that his room is too small to properly dance. But he really wants to dance with Martha again, now that everything’s on the table; no flirting, no faking, just getting to dance with someone he dances well with.

Of course, nice reasoning doesn’t make the room bigger. The song isn’t even over yet before they’ve tripped on something that sends John falling onto the bed and Martha sprawling awkwardly next to him.

“Told you,” Martha giggles.

John grins and shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

Martha shifts herself into a more comfortable position. “Where’d you learn to dance?”

“The Scarsdale Jewish Community Center,” John deadpans.

Martha hits him with a pillow.

“I went to this prep school when I was little,” John replies honestly. “Other than dancing, I also learned, you know, ‘manly’ activities, like… fencing. A little.”

Martha sits up. “Woah, seriously?”

_Only what Alex taught me. _“Not much. I wasn’t very interested in it. Not in a class, anyway.”__

__Martha looks like she’s going to say something else, but the doorbell beats her to it._ _

__“Martha!” Hester calls from the kitchen. “It’s your mother!”_ _

__Martha leaps up. “Shit! What time is it?”_ _

__“Uh…” John glances at his alarm clock. “Nearly six.”_ _

__Martha’s already out the door. “I’m gonna be late for dance!” she calls over her shoulder as John scrambles after her. “See you later, Jacky! Bye!”_ _

__And then she’s gone._ _

__“She busts in, she busts out,” Elias notes. “Would a joke about her being ‘busty’ be in bad taste?”_ _

__“You’re 12,” Hester reminds him, aghast. “Also yes. Also, _you’re 12_.”_ _

___Jesus,_ John thinks. _I have a fake girlfriend. What is my life?__ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things you have to look forwards to next time:
> 
> 1\. Ham the man, FINALLY.  
> 2\. Francis is ridiculous.  
> 3\. I may have fallen a little bit in love with Martha while writing her.  
> 4\. More of Tom, hopefully.


	8. We'll Be Back After These Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you alone in the room?” Phil asks.
> 
> “I don’t have, like, voices in my head, if that’s what you’re asking. I, uh, I used to imagine my imaginary friends living in there.”

The closer John gets to the end of Winter Break, the more he worries. So far, he’s out to two people at school without having had any intention of telling anyone. What if he slips and outs himself to someone who doesn’t take it as well as Francis and Martha did? Oh, shit, Francis knows he’s gay. Oh, _shit_ , he’s technically dating Martha now. _Oh shit_ , he is so not ready for school to start up again.

_Shit, shit, shit._

By Monday, he’s worked himself into a tizzy about far more things than he has any right to worry about.

“Jack,” Hester says at breakfast. “You’re eating way too fast. The food isn’t going to run away.”

“Sorry.” He tries to slow down a bit, but his nerves have him running on fast-forwards.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just… not looking forwards to school.”

And honestly, why should he? His schedule is horrible today, at least for the first half: Geography and Gym, with a brief intermission for English. He’s so not in the mood to deal with Mr. Gage, or Dick, or _Fried Green Tomatoes_ , or the Baron, or school in general.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to worry about Mr. Gage. He finds this out from Nathan, who catches him the second he steps foot into the classroom.

“Did you hear?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Uh, no? What?” _Can this wait until after I put my backpack down?_

“Mr. Gage got fired!”

John blinks. “...what?”

Nathan is nodding furiously, his face barely able to contain his grin. “He got fired!”

“Seriously?” Nathan’s grin is contagious, and despite his own nervous energy, John finds himself smiling. “Who’s the new teacher?”

“Some guy named Howe. Can’t be worse than Gage, right?”

“Murphy’s Law, Pythias!” Ben calls from across the room.

“Gage was an asshole!” Nathan retorts… just as a teacher enters the room.

“Murphy’s Law?” John reminds him.

“Shut up,” Nathan mutters.

The teacher - theoretically Howe - glances around the room with a cold eye, starting with a withering look towards Nathan. He’s a middling to tall height, with lidded eyes and dark brown hair. He has the sort of face that implies he has a very nice smile but never uses it, and the annoyed set of his eyebrows at the moment isn’t helping. He walks over to the board and writes “MR. HOWE.”

“Please settle down, class,” he instruct, no-nonsense. “You’ll be having assigned seating. Wait until I tell you where to sit.”

There’s some grumbling, but no one outright causes trouble just yet. The room is a bundle of curiosity, waiting to see who’ll test the new teacher’s limits first. John’s bets are on Dick or Nathan.

Mr. Howe goes down the rows, calling out names as he goes.

“Taddy...ooz?” he hazards at one point.

The boy in question, a guy with long-ish auburn hair who John had seen at the opposite end of class earlier, makes a face like he’s used to people completely butchering his name.

“If you can’t pronounce Polish,” he instructs, moving from the back of the classroom to his seat, “please just call me Andrew.”

“Has he always been in this class?” John asks Nathan quietly. He feels like he’d remember the Polish accent.

Nathan shakes his head. “This school seriously can’t get its act together. A couple people switched classes over Winter Break. I don’t know why.”

“John Laurens,” Mr. Howe calls.

John sits down behind Andrew. Once Howe is finished, John is surrounded by Andrew in front of him, Angelica Schuyler behind him, Edmund Randolph on his right (who sits behind James Madison and in front of where Francis will sit when he gets back), and, lord help him, John Dickinson on his left.

The class has one other newcomer besides Andrew, some guy named Caleb who sits in front of Dick. Both Nathan and Ben were ecstatic that Caleb had joined the class, but he’s not here this week, so John doesn’t get to meet him. Speaking of Nathan, he gets stuck behind Dick. John wonders how long it will take Mr. Howe to realize that putting Dick right by Angelica and Nathan is a very bad plan. (Not to mention putting Ben across the room from Nathan, which seems to be paining both of them already.)

By ten minutes into the class, Howe already looks like he has a splitting headache. There’s a combination of factors, including that the class has managed to learn absolutely nothing at all from Mr. Gage, that it’s the first period after Winter Break, and that none of them are used to being disciplined in this class. Mr. Howe’s lesson plan quickly dissolves into labeling the American states and capitals and asking the class to memorize them. He draws a diagram on the board and instructs the class to take notes, only to discover that half of them don’t even have a notebook for this class.

To top it all off, John either managed to forget how awful Dick is, or he’s much worse today for some reason. Dick can’t seem to go two minutes without interrupting with some inane and unnecessary comment, and John can practically hear Nathan gritting his teeth. The strangest thing is, Dick doesn’t seem to believe half of what he’s saying. There’s this glint in his eye every time he talks that John couldn’t see when he was sitting several rows behind him, but he’s starting to suspect that Dick is being intentionally annoying.

The guy sitting next to Dick (John thinks his name is Sam or something) nudges Dick and asks, “Did you forget to take your meds this morning?”

Dick shrugs broadly, says, “Whatever, I was in a rush,” and starts drawing a penis on his desk. It only takes a moment for Howe to catch him (which is impressive in comparison to Gage, who wouldn’t have noticed at all) and send him out of the room. Nathan breathes a sigh of relief.

John fights the urge to ask Sam about what meds Dick would be taking. He feels like someone’s offered him some semblance of explanation for why Dick is such a douchebag, but neglected to tell him the last piece of information that would actually make anything make sense.

The class ticks by, second by second, until finally, miraculously, it ends. Even more of a miracle is that Howe lets them go when the bell rings, because John can just tell he’s one of those teachers who firmly believe that they dictate when class ends, not the bell. John slings on his backpack and reminds himself that _Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe_ is a good book and Mr. Bentham is a good teacher and he gets to catch up with Tom soon which is a good thing and he _will_ make it through the day, dammit.

It takes him a couple seconds to realize that someone is calling his name.

“John!” Andrew yells again. John turns around to see Andrew holding a notebook. “You forgot this,” he tells John, striding over to hand it to him.

“Oh,” says John. “Thanks.” He takes the notebook back, and looks at Andrew. Now that they’re standing in front of one another, John is surprised to find that Andrew is actually shorter than him; there’s some sort of confidence in his stance that makes him seem taller. “Uh, Andrew, right? Or, uh…”

“Andrzej Tadeusz Bonawentura Kościuszko,” Andrew - well, alright, apparently not Andrew - rattles off. “But I discovered very quickly that most Americans cannot say that.”

John chuckles. _I’ll bet_. “How long have you been in America?”

Andrzej shifts his backpack. “Since school started. There is an exchange program between our schools, and I applied for it.”

John is about to say something lame like ‘oh cool’ when he hears a voice call out “Jacky!” from the end of the hall. He turns to see Martha waving at him and start heading over.

“Uh, I’ll just - that’s my… girlfriend.” It feels strange to say. “I’ll just -”

Andrzej smiles, nods. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, John.”

“Likewise.”

“Who’s that?” Martha asks once she reaches John. Andrzej is already halfway down the hallway. “He’s cute.”

John gives her a curious look. “I can’t tell if you’re saying that for your benefit or mine.”

Martha shrugs. “Either. Which way’s your next class?”

“Just around the corner. Why?”

“Because,” Martha explains, nudging him in the shoulder, “I’m walking you to class. That’s a thing dating people do.”

And so she does. And however weird it is to think of her as his girlfriend, fake or not, John enjoys it, enjoys talking with Martha as they make their way towards Mr. Bentham’s classroom. It’s not until they reach the classroom just as the bell rings that John realizes she’s going to be late for her next class.

“Oops,” she says, not seeming too worried.

“Not exactly a class you were looking forwards to?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Martha explains, “Pat - er, I mean, Mr. Henry - is great. It’s not his fault his Literary Analysis class sucks.”

“Pat can suck a -” Tom starts yelling from where he’s sitting, before realizing that Mr. Bentham is in the classroom and probably won’t let the rest of the sentence slide. “- uh… yeah, never mind.”

“Persuasive Essay Incident,” John explains to Martha. “Ask me about it later.”

She smirks before reaching out to give John’s hand a squeeze and running off to class. John turns around just in time to see Tom raising his eyebrows.

“Mad Mattie,” Tom starts.

“John, please sit down,” Mr. Bentham requests.

“Right, so, a lot happened over break,” John whispers as he takes a seat next to Tom. Bentham is sorting out his papers at the desk, so they have about another minute before they do anything.

“No kidding, dude,” Tom intones. “And I thought the incident with Dolley at the party was news. Although, that was pretty exciting, I suppose.”

“The - wait, what?”

Tom peers at him. “Where you, perchance, upstairs during the New Year’s party at, oh, 11:47 PM?”

“That’s… oddly specific.” Let’s see, he was probably still playing Cards Against Humanity at that point in the night. “No, I don’t think so.”

Tom purses his lips, then turns away from John. “Then never mind.”

“No, wait, I want to know!”

“Does everyone have their books?” Mr. Bentham asks.

“Too bad, class is starting,” Tom breathes in relief.

John’s starting to question whether he even wants to know.

* * *

School on Tuesday pretty much goes by in a haze. John’s getting used to interacting with Martha as her boyfriend (actually, it’s pretty easy if he just forgets the romantic aspect of it - he genuinely likes hanging out with her), Tom still won’t tell him what the Incident was, and Francis isn’t back yet. Nor will he respond to John’s texts. Which is fine, he’s probably busy, but John would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit upset anyway.

Unfortunately, Tuesday wasn’t destined to go by seamlessly. Henry had let the therapy meetings go during Winter Break, but now that school’s back in session, he’s pressing John to see Phil again - if “pressing” now means “practically forcing.”

“You promised to give him a chance,” Henry reminds John on the way to Phil’s office.

“I gave him a chance,” John grumbles. “I don’t want to go back,”

“One meeting is not ‘giving it a chance’.”

“Yes, it is, it’s one chance, that’s literally exactly what it is!” John’s set on making this as difficult as possible; he knows Henry will win this argument, but that doesn’t have to mean he gets an easy win.

“John, this is for your benefit. Please don’t fight me on it.” Henry’s using his long-suffering voice, the one that makes him sound tired and put-upon, and which John is convinced is entirely manufactured to guilt his way into winning arguments.

John scowls, hunches his shoulders, and mutters, “Fine.”

The therapy office is just as John remembers it. The front doors, flanked by large opaque windows that let in plenty of light, leads into an open waiting room which features comfortable chairs, some magazines (which, upon further inspection, seem rather interesting), and a back corner with toys for the younger kids. The only thing differentiating it from a dentist’s office is that, where a dentist’s office might have displayed a mixture of cutesy and informative posters about oral hygiene, the walls sport crayon drawings and positivity posters. The lady at the front desk is the same one as last time, too, with dark hair pulled back into a bun and a name tag announcing that her name is Dorothea. John considers going up to talk to her, purely to get away from Henry, but can’t think of anything to say; and anyway, she’s tapping away at her computer, so she’s probably busy, and it’s almost time for his appointment, anyway.

Right on cue, Dorothea calls, “John Laurens,” and glances up to scan the room. Henry gives her a curt nod. Her gaze flickers over to John, then back down to her computer. She hasn’t stopped typing the whole time.

John trudges down the hall, Henry, thankfully, lingering behind. The room is through the second door on the right, if John remembers correctly. He does.

“John!” Phil greets brightly. “Come in, come in.” He’s peering surreptitiously behind John, probably to see if Henry has followed him in this time, and, satisfied that he hasn’t, returns his attention to John, who closes the door behind him and sits down.

“How have you been?” Phil asks him. The bright tone hasn’t subsided. John wonders how Phil can be so cheerful while having a profession that is literally listening to people’s problems. Maybe it puts things into perspective?

“Fine,” John says, less because it’s true and more because it seems like the thing to say.

“How was your break? Did you do anything exciting?” How long exactly are they going to make awkward small talk? It’s admittedly preferable to talking about his feelings, but an hour is a long time to fill with filler talk.

“I got to hang out with my family?” John offers.

“Oh, wonderful!” The phrase would be sarcastic if it came from anyone but Phil, who seems incapable of sarcasm. “Did you go sledding? Good weather for it.”

John shakes his head, musing that he’s getting fidgety, and he’d at least like a pen to draw with if Dr. Phil is going to keep chatting. Wait. Oh god. John just realized that, _Dr. Phil_. He lets out an involuntary snort.

Phil raises his brow in silent question.

“I - sorry, you…” John gestures to Phil. “I - I just realized your name is Dr. Phil. Like, uh, like the show?”

Phil laughs - genuinely laughs, which is weird, since he’s probably heard this before and it can’t be that funny at this point. “Yes, I suppose that _is_ my name. But I can assure you, John, I’m much less of a - well, a _personality_ , I suppose you could say - than he.”

John doesn’t really know how to respond, other than saying something like, “Yeah,” and the silence that follows is awkward, at best, even if Phil doesn’t appear bothered by it.

John clears his throat. “Listen, aren’t you supposed to, I dunno, ask me about my, uh, my issues, or something?”

“If that’s what you’d prefer,” Phil says. “You can open up at whatever pace makes you comfortable.”

“Oh.” And… yeah, that’s pretty much all he has to say. He’s not doing exceptionally well in this conversation. He struggles to find something else to say. “So, do you, uh… ask questions? Or, am I supposed to, like, just - just talk?”

Phil pauses as if considering. “Tell me what you’re interested in, John. Do you have any hobbies?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I like art.”

Phil smiles again, although John’s not quite sure he ever stopped. “Oh? Is there anything in particular you like to draw?”

Either this is some sort of complex psychoanalyzing, or the question legitimately has nothing to do with John’s mental state. Whatever the case, he’s starting to feel a little less on edge.

“Nature, mostly,” he replies. “Flowers and animals. I really like turtles.” Wait, what if his favorite animal says more about him than he thought? What if Phil thinks turtles represent retreating into his shell or something, or not wanting to move forwards quickly in life or something?

What if he’s way, way overthinking this?

“Ah, yes,” Phil responds, in all honesty probably not linking John’s anxiety to turtles in the least bit. “Mother Nature is a wonderful subject. I wonder, John, would you be willing to draw something for me? Not anything exceptionally complex, it’s merely a curiosity.”

John regards Phil warily. “I guess?”

“Excellent!” Phil rummages around in his desk and surfaces with a pen and a notepad. “Do you think you could draw a little sketch of how you imagine your mind?”

“...what?”

“When you picture your mind, what do you imagine? I, personally, picture a large field with a tree in the center. All of the winds are my emotions, but the tree acts as my core.”

Tom’s voice is in John’s head saying, “ _What kinda hippy shit is this?_ ” John ignores it.

“I, uh, I guess I can try.”

He stares down at the paper at a loss. How _does_ he picture his mind? Well, he’s always sort of imagined a big room that he can roam around in. Back when he was younger and he had imaginary friends, he used to imagine they lived in that room. There’s not really much of anything else in there, since he never pictured thoughts as concrete things, so it doesn’t take long to draw. In the end, it’s basically just a box with a stick figure in it, because he doesn’t feel like exerting that much effort.

It’s pretty shitty, but Phil contemplates it like it’s interesting.

“It’s a room,” John explains, so that Phil doesn’t think he literally pictures himself in a box, because that’s even more depressing than a bare room.

“Are you alone in the room?” Phil asks.

“I don’t have, like, voices in my head, if that’s what you’re asking. I, uh, I used to imagine my imaginary friends living in there.”

“You had imaginary friends?” Phil sounds less surprised, more curious.

John shrugs. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“I’ve met some people who haven’t, but yes, it’s pretty common. Would you mind telling me about them?”

And, well, it’s a weird line of conversation, but at least it’s not talking about himself, so John finds himself telling Phil all about his imaginary friends. There was Jordan, who was a giant who liked to plant flowers. Anytime John, at the time maybe eight (he stopped really thinking about the imaginary friends when he was around 12 or 13, stopped believing they were real when he was 10), learned anything new about plants and such, he’d talk to Jordan about it and pretend to have in depth conversations that were mostly BS. Jordan liked bees, too, and he and John would give all of the bees names.

Then there were Lucy and Luke, who were twins, but nothing alike. Lucy basically didn’t have a personality, which was unsurprising, since John had barely interacted with girls. Luke was a wild adventurer who liked sword fighting and scuba-diving and everything in between. If memory serves, he had bright green eyes. (John doesn’t mention this to Phil.) Whenever John got in trouble, he would always blame Luke for coming up with the idea, and also Lucy, mostly as an afterthought. He’s not really sure why she was there.

There was also a huge turtle named Leonard. Actually, come to think of it, he was really a tortoise, but John would have very adamantly defended Leonard’s turtle-ness had anyone questioned it. His full name was Leonard Patrick Cogsworth Richard Battington III (and lord knows why John still remembered all that), and he was a prince from an ancient land where everyone was turtles. Details were hazy. Leonard also had an exorbitant amount of children, not all of whom were named. Also, they had no mother. Again, details were hazy. The only names that John could remember here were Leonard Patrick Cogsworth Richard Battington IV (obviously) and Steffanie Battington, intentionally spelled with two ‘f’s instead of a 'ph' (for some reason).

By the time John finishes talking about all of them, with Phil listening with apparent interest, he’s thrown in so many tangential stories that the hour-long session is nearly up. It’s only then that he remembers a question he’d been meaning to ask Phil.

“Hey, uh, what’s the privacy policy for these meetings?” he asks cautiously.

Phil gives John an intent look over his glasses. “I won’t tell anyone anything you tell me unless you’re being hurt by someone, including yourself, or if you’re hurting someone else. Otherwise, total secrecy.” He doesn’t question if there’s something in particular John didn’t want Henry to know. And really, there hadn’t been, except… John doesn’t really want to tell Phil that he’s gay, but he wants to know that, if it slipped out somehow, Henry wouldn’t find out.

“Thanks,” John says, because it’s something to say.

They’re back to filler talk for the remaining 7 minutes of the session.

* * *

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Sorry I keep sending so many texts. I’ll stop after this one.  
**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** You’re still not back in school. You ok?

John sends the texts during art class, since Mr. Howe made it very clear that he would not be letting anyone use their phones.

“You texting Mattie?” Maria asks with a grin and a wink.

“No,” John replies curtly, pocketing his phone.

Bull gasps in delight. “Ooh, spill the tea! Why is John texting Mad Mattie? You do mean Mad Mattie, right?”

“The one and only,” Maria responds, overlapping with John’s, “I’m not - what tea?”

“It means gossip,” Johnny explains. “As in, gossip that might relate to you texting Mattie with the same nervous face Maria used to get when she first started texting Thomas, like you’re worried she won’t like you back.”

“You just _had_ to make this a jab at me!” Maria huffs.

“One,” John lists off, “you’re reading way too much into my facial expressions. Two, I wasn’t texting Martha. Three, even if I was, I wouldn’t be worrying about whether or not she likes me.”

“Because they’re already dating,” Maria adds.

“Say what now?” Will yells from the other end of the table.

John groans. He had no idea Martha was so popular.

“Why do you call her Martha?” Georgie asks. “Everyone else uses a nickname. Is it like, a romance thing or something? Using her real name?”

“I’m almost positive it’s an awkward thing, not a romance thing,” says Henry, who's considered himself some sort of relationship expert ever since he started dating Ann.

“What am I supposed to call her?” John demands. “‘My dear girl?’”

Will makes a face. "No. That’s weird.”

Cat frowns. “I think it’s kinda sweet…”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Lay off the poor guy.”

“Thank you,” John sighs.

“He’s obviously new to dating and it hopelessly floundering.”

“Wow. Never mind.”

John’s not as annoyed as he seems, but he still doesn’t like being the center of attention. It also feels weird to have everyone gushing over a relationship that isn’t even real, but hey, that means they’re selling it well, right? And so long as everyone thinks he’s dating Martha - Mattie, whatever (maybe he _should_ be using a pet name) - no one will suspect anything.

He makes a mental note to ask Millie during lunch if she knows where Francis is, then remembers that he won’t see her during lunch because he’ll be at Lit Mag.

Room 204 is just as loud as it is on any given Wednesday. John sees Sarah and Ellie giggling off to one side of the room, with Joel sitting near them reading a comic book and occasionally interjecting with comments that make them laugh even harder. David is doodling on the board with Phil behind him, sitting on the desk and swinging her legs as she talks. George wanders around the room, mostly ending up behind Joel, reading bits of the comic over his shoulder and making comments about realism that Joel takes in stride. Tom and Jack are having some kind of argument that looks heated, but that John knows from experience probably won’t affect their (admittedly rather strange) friendship much. Angelica has joined their argument today, but John can’t really tell whose side she’s on. Her own, probably. Day is having his own argument closer to the back of the classroom, with… Ginger Loudmouth? Wait, since when does he go to Lit Mag meetings?

George notices John come in and strolls over to greet him.

“Good to see you, John.”

“Likewise. Uh, who’s that?” He nods towards Ginger Loudmouth.

“Who? Oh, that’s Alex. Angelica finally dragged him here. She’s been trying for months, he keeps saying he’s busy.”

“He’s cute,” John doesn’t say. “His personality seems to match his hair,” he also doesn’t say. In fact, he doesn’t say anything (thank god), because Mr. Cowper walks in just then and calls for the group to settle down.

“Ah, Alex,” he greets upon seeing him in the back of the class. “Good to have you here.”

“Yeah,” Joel adds, “We’ve gotten so much stuff from you, it’s nice to know you really exist.”

“We have math together, Joel,” Alex deadpans. His voice is exactly how John remembers it from French class, vaguely Northern with a bit of something else that he can’t quite place.

“Yes, I know. You talk so much, it’s hard to forget.” Joel’s jab is good-natured, as usual. It took a while for John to learn how to differentiate Joel’s sarcasm from actual maliciousness, but he got there eventually.

“Wait, what stuff have we gotten from Gin-Alex?” John catches himself just in time, so hopefully no one notices his slip, and he pretends not to notice Alex’s eyes flick over to him.

“He signs his works ‘Hamilton’,” Angelica explains, “because he’s just as pretentious as Thomas - no, I’m not calling you Day, no amount of glaring’s gonna change that.” John’s not really listening because Alex has focused his attention on him and _wow_ does he have nice eyes. John didn’t even know it was possible to have violet blue eyes, but apparently it is, and paired with the bright red hair and the freckles, Alex is seriously cute. Like, objectively. Because John is _not_ going through this again. He’s just now starting to get over Francis, and he’d like a nice long break from… emotions. Just, like, emotions in general.

He notices too late that he’s been staring at Alex as conversation resumes a low buzz around him and people start sitting down. Then again, Alex has been staring at him, too, so it’s not like he’s being a creep. Alex gives John a smirk that sends heat rushing to John’s cheeks and finally looks away.

John sits down too quickly to look casual and tries in vain to will away the blush. If anyone asks, he’ll say the heater in the room is turned on too high (which he knows is a lie, it was chilly in the room until a moment ago and Sarah is wearing a down coat, but whatever, it’s his excuse and he’s sticking with it).

“Okay, piece number one,” Mr. Cowper announces. “Anyone want to read?”

“Sure, why not,” says Alex. He looks around to make sure no one minds, then stands and makes his way to the front of the room. Mr. Cowper hands him the piece, which takes up two sheets of paper, double-sided. Then again, it’s formatted into a thin column, so that’s not necessarily so long.

“Pass the American History,” Alex begins, “sharp 180° turn, descend the stairs.”

The poem continues to describe the writer’s experience with coming out as bisexual to a woman who really doesn’t get it. Alex has a good voice for reading out loud, adding the right inflections to keep audience attention and making sure to speak clearly, if a bit quickly.

A couple people snap at the end; mostly Joel, who does so after every poem, regardless of how good or bad, but he seems fairly serious this time.

“I love all the gay stuff we’re getting this year, keep it coming,” Jack comments.

“Bi, not gay,” Alex corrects.

“I meant ‘gay’ like an umbrella term, Alex, chill.”

Angelica rolls her eyes. “‘Chill’ isn’t in his vocabulary.”

Sarah doesn’t say anything, just stares shyly at her hands. Ellie smiles knowingly at her.

“Okay,” Angelica says, “but seriously, she asked ‘how did you know you weren’t confused’? Seriously? Why would you say that to someone’s face?”

Alex shrugs. “Because people are horrible? It’s happened to me more time than I can count, people are just kinda shitty like that.”

“Language,” Mr. Cowper says automatically.

“ _Oh good,_ ” says a small, unhelpful voice in John’s head that is probably the devil or some other force of evil, “ _now you know he’s into guys._ ”

 _Shut up,_ John thinks back. _Just shut up._

“Any more comments?” Mr. Cowper asks. “No? Let’s vote.”

The piece gets a unanimous vote for yes from everyone but Sarah, who claims the piece as her own afterwards.

“Next piece,” Mr. Cowper announces, “which I… yes, I think this is a prompt from Mr. Adam’s class. Volunteers?”

John raises his hand, prompting a “Woo, go John!” from Sarah. He doesn’t tend to read pieces all that often.

“Prompt: tea,” he reads after getting the paper from Mr. Cowper. “Other title: The Breakup. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. I’d rather say it face to face.’”

Alex’s eyes are probably on him the entire time because he’s paying attention to the poem, and John’s face is probably heating up because the heater has finally kicked in and Sarah’s just decided not to take her coat off because… reasons. Or at least, that’s what John tells himself to keep himself sane and focus on the poem.

There’s a pause when he finishes the poem, punctuated eventually by Joel saying, “Was that it?”

“Uh, yeah,” John says. “That’s it.”

“Pretty heavy on the symbolism,” George comments. “I feel like they were trying too hard.”

David scoffs. “It’s Adams’s class, of course they were trying too hard. That’s, like, a necessity on an Adams assignment.”

Ellie shakes her head. “I liked it. Especially the lines about the kettle screaming. It’s not a cliché metaphor, I think it was done well.”

“Is ‘sugar’ a euphemism for sex?” Joel asks, only half joking.

Mr. Cowper calls for votes before anyone can answer Joel, and a little over half the class (John included) raises their hands.

“That piece was by Francis Kinloch,” Mr. Cowper says. “Now, we have one more piece. May I have a reader?”

Wait. Francis? Francis writes poetry? The discovery stirs up equal parts giddiness and relief; giddiness because that stupid crush is still lingering, and relief because it’s only _barely_ lingering. And while yes, finding out that Francis is apparently a decent poet really doesn’t help the situation, John’s finally starting to hope that maybe he can get over it.

Which, you know, doesn’t stop him from wishing that Francis would text back already.

Alex dwindles by the door after the club ends, probably waiting for Angelica. Or, that’s what John would have guessed, except that he stays where he is even after Angelica leaves with Phil, chatting about the various issues with the final piece they’d read, which had received a resounding “no” largely on the merit of being offensive towards most of the people in the room. No, instead, Alex starts moving once John heads out the door behind Tom and Joel.

“John, right?” he asks, keeping pace with John easily despite being roughly half a foot shorter.

“Uh, yeah. And you’re Alex, right?”

Alex grins. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service.”

“No flirting, Ham,” calls an agitated voice from behind them. John turns to see Millie striding towards him. “John, have you seen Francis?”

“Mils, you wound me,” Alex drawls. “Don’t you trust me to have a normal conversation?”

Millie shoots him a withering look that makes it very clear that she’s not in a good mood and she’d thank him to shut his trap, please. "No."

“No, I haven’t seen him,” John answers.

Millie purses her lips and breathes out through her nose. “I was hoping, maybe… I dunno, maybe he got here late and came to Lit Mag or something. He hasn’t answered any of my texts, I’m getting worried.”

John tries not to look too relieved, but at least now he knows that Francis probably isn’t intentionally ignoring him.

“Well, he was out because of a funeral,” he reasons, “so… maybe he’s busy with family stuff?”

Millie gives him a strange look. “How do you know that?”

“Uh. He texted me. Did he - did he not tell you?”

“No.” Millie answers curtly. She glances back at Alex, who’s still there, theoretically waiting to continue a conversation with John. “Whatever. See you in Math, Ham.”

“Bye, Mils.” Alex watches Millie go, then turns back to John, smiling. “Where were we?”

* * *

“Betrayed! By my own brother!”

“It’s one inch, bro, calm down.”

John doesn’t even bat an eye, just keeps eating his eggs. Andre's dramatics are a pretty normal way to start the morning.

“By own little brother,” Andre cries, “hitting 5’5” before me!”

“Don’t worry, Andy,” Mary chirps. “You’re still the bigger baby.”

“Mary, be nice,” Henry warns.

“No!” Mary wails. “He’s whining about being shorter than Eli, but I’m _never_ gonna be tall!”

“You’ll be taller than you are now,” Hester assures her.

“So?! _You’re_ still short!”

Hester chooses to ignore Mary. Instead, she reaches over and ruffles Elias’s hair. “Well, now you have more height _and_ more hair. Speaking of which, you both need haircuts.”

“No!” Elias protests, ducking away from her.

“Yes!” Andre crows. “I’m gonna get a mohawk!”

“No you’re not,” Henry corrects. “And Hester’s right, you boys need haircuts. That means you, too, John.”

He has a point. John had been meaning to ask, anyway. His hair’s getting kind of shaggy.

“Do I have to, dad?” Elias asks. “I was thinking of growing it out…”

“Absolutely not.”

“No, I mean, to donate. You know, like, Wigs for Kids or Locks of Love or something.”

Henry purses his lips and considers. “Well… I suppose that would be alright.” He sighs. “I just worry that you’ll look like a hoodlum.”

Andre grins. “It’s cool, dad, he can borrow the girls’ ponytails!”

“He can have all of mine,” Mary says. “I want short hair.”

Henry frowns. “Your hair is so pretty, sweetie, don’t cut it.”

Mary sits up straight, evidently prepared for a fight. “I want shorter hair. And if you don’t let me get it, I’ll cut it myself!”

Exasperated, Henry gives in. Andre spends the rest of breakfast trying to convince Henry to let him get a mohawk, which goes nowhere. They get out the door later than Henry would have liked, as usual, which Mary blames on having to brush her hair, just to drive the point home.

First period PE is as excruciating as ever, and John can’t tell whether or not it helps that Alex keeps shooting him little grins whenever the Baron gets particularly pissed off. Because Alex shoots little grins at multiple people. He’s just focusing those grins on John sometimes because now they’ve formally met. It doesn’t mean anything.

Of course, Alex’s little grins aren’t nearly distracting enough that John doesn’t notice that Francis still isn’t in school and still hasn’t responded to any of his texts. John’s starting to be reasonably worried.

Alex’s attention isn’t focused so much on John next period in history. As usual, Alex sits next to some guy whose name John has never quite managed to catch, but who he mixed up with Alex all the time for the first half of the year, right up until the guy cut his hair (Alex’s is still long enough to pull pack into a ponytail, which is how he wears it frequently). He’s pretty sure they’re brothers, but he’s also pretty sure that there’s only one Hamilton on the attendance sheet. Maybe half brothers?

Overall, the rest of the day goes by pretty normally. Come lunchtime, John sits with Aaron, Millie, Tom, and James, which has become his usual lunchtime group. The only difference today is that Francis isn’t there and Martha is.

“Jacky!” she calls, sliding into the seat next to John and effortlessly fitting herself into his side. (She’s much better at this than he is.) “Introduce me to your friends!”

“Mattie, I’m hurt,” Tom deadpans. “I thought we were friends.”

“I meant everyone else, Tom-Tom.”

“Tom-Tom?” John echoes. “Seriously? Is this a hobby of yours, picking up on strange nicknames and not letting go?”

“Jacky isn’t a strange nickname,” Martha insists.

“Also, you’re one to talk,” Millie adds. Then, at John’s questioning look, “Forehead Guy?”

John winces. “Francis told you about that?”

“I want to hear this story,” Martha requests gleefully.

“Later,” John grumbles. “Anyway, this is Millie, James, and Aaron.” He nods at each person in turn. “Francis is usually here, but he’s, uh… we don’t know where he is.”

“Family stuff, right?” Millie asks. It’s an innocent question, which doesn’t explain why she sounds bitter. Then again, apparently Francis didn’t tell her where he was, so maybe she’s angry about that.

“Something like that, yeah.”

Millie looks like she’s going to say something else, but a sudden, violent sneeze from James interrupts her. He tucks his jacket tighter around himself and sinks lower into his seat. Some scattered “bless you”s follow him down.

“‘Tis the season,” Tom remarks.

Aaron shifts in his seat. “Just don’t give it to me, alright? I have a date tonight. Oh, that was tactless. That was - I didn’t think that through, I’m sorry.”

James glares at him. “You don’t need to treat me like a delicate woodland creature over this, Aaron.”

Millie frowns. “What happened?”

Aaron shoots James a look that says _can I tell her?_. James shrugs and lets out another sneeze, this one more muffled.

“Kitty broke up with him,” Aaron explains. “Over winter break. Apparently she was pity dating him because Thomas set them up. Mind you, ‘pity dating’ is not a direct quote, but, ‘I just felt bad for you, I guess’ is.”

Martha sucks in a breath. “Yikes.”

“Harsh,” Tom agrees.

“Also, she says she wants to experiment with girls or something,” James mumbles (or it may be talking at normal volume, not mumbling, but it’s hard to tell).

“I’m one hundred percent sure that’s not how bisexuality works,” Martha tells him.

“I know what bisexuality is,” James shoots back. “She literally called it 'lesbian experimentation'.”

“Oh, are we talking about Kitty?”

John turns to see Maria stopping on her way by their table. She adjusts her hat with one hand, balancing her lunch tray with the other. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear, like, most of that. Aaron isn’t really quiet.”

James groans and buries his head in his hands.

“It’s a loud lunchroom!” Aaron protests.

“Anyway,” Maria continues, “not to gossip or anything, but I’m about to gossip. ‘Scuse me.” She sits down in the seat between Martha and Millie and sets her lunch tray down on the table. “So, not exactly sure when Kitty broke up with you, James, but she sure did not waste time in trying to find someone else. Source: we saw each other at a party - well, sort of a party, a small party - over winter break and she totally tried to hook up with me.”

“Just to check,” Millie interjects, “are you sure? Or was she just being really nice and you made assumptions?”

Maria raises an eyebrow at Millie. “Oh, honey, I’m sure. Like, if the blatant flirting wasn’t enough, the fact that she got really close and said something like, ‘I’ve never been with a girl before,’ really clinched it.”

Tom nearly chokes on his food. “You hooked up with Kitty?!” he hisses.

“No! You think I’m going to be someone’s experiment? Please, I have standards.”

“And you have Thomas,” James adds quietly.

Maria’s cheeks redden. “I do not - shut up! Wait, did he say that? Did you talk to him? Is he still into me? I mean, not that I care or anything, just, like, curious.”

“No, yes, I don’t know,” James replies, monotone.

“Wait, timeout.” Tom holds up a T with his hands. “Your problem with the situation was that you didn’t want to be an experiment, not that you weren’t into girls?”

Maria frowns. “Uh, yeah. Duh.”

“That’s not ‘duh,’ Maria!” Tom sputters. “You mooned over Thomas the whole of last year, don’t act like I had anything but zero indication that you like girls, too!”

“Tell the whole school, why don’t you,” Maria grumbles. “Look, do you have a _problem_ with it? ‘Cause you can go screw yourself, buddy, I’m not -”

“No, I don’t have a problem. Are you kidding me, half the people in this school are LGBT. I’m just… thrown off guard by how blase you are about it, I guess.”

Maria shrugs. “Whatever. Unrelated, John, how’s your sister?”

It’s John’s turn to nearly choke on his food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why isn't Francis answering??? Find out next time on Why Does It Take Me Forever to Write Chapters, the Amazing Life of an Overly Anxiety Ridden Teenage Boy Who Blushes Instead of Getting Boners Because I Don't Know What Penises Do and Don't Want to Deal with It.
> 
> Poems taken from: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5658388/chapters/13033036


	9. Everything's Aces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is, John thinks, an art to texting Alex. Mainly this art involves getting used to a weird schedule. Alex texts at all hours, reasonable or not, and leaves whole paragraphs before going back to whatever he was doing before and not answering any response until he’s finished. It feels more like having a penpal than just texting someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! My gift: an actual timely update, for possibly the only time in the entire lifespan of this fic. Merry Whatever, eat good food, enjoy some angst.

9:27 PM

**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** oh shit osrry man i culdnt ansur yr txts i wuz n teh hospital

John puts down his pencil when he hears his phone buzz. He knows he should be done with his math homework by now, but procrastination got the better of him. He has to sift through his bed covers to find the phone, which gives him time to idly wonder who’s texting him. He gave Alex his number on Friday (for the record, Alex asked for it, it wasn’t just John trying to - never mind), so maybe it’s him. It fits Alex’s style, texting at random hours (and then usually getting sidetracked halfway through a conversation and picking it back up again a few hours later), so maybe…

Oh shit.

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Why were you in the hospital???  
 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Wait, were you there for someone else or for you?  
 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Francis?

There’s nothing for a few minutes, leaving John to stress out over whether Francis is typing something really long or has abandoned the conversation or is possibly dying. Then,

**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** fuk sory im on sum hevy duty painkilers rigt now nd i zond out  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** i dunn evn now if ths is lgble man ths sht us STROGN

John decides that “lgble” probably means “legible” and not “legal” (it could honestly be either). Which… yeah, hardly.

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** What happened?

**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** i fel ona rok  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** lik i triped nd jus  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** pook  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** rigt inta my hed  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** had to gt sum stitche its supr coool

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Are you okay?  
 **[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Obviously not, like, very okay, but sort of okay?

**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** yeh yeh fin  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** is shuld be in scul ina cupla dsya  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** the ceelin is so fuckijn cul masdn

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Go to sleep, Francis.

**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** k nite nite  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** gd yard  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** lol

John stares at the phone for another minute or so, but it stays silent. Probably for the best. Whatever painkillers Francis has seem incredibly effective.

True to what was probably his word (the whole typing-while-on-drugs thing made it hard to understand), Francis is back in school by Tuesday. They don’t get to talk much until lunchtime. Francis gets to the table around the same time as John, wearing a baseball hat with a hole in the front and an iron on sticker of a cartoon-ish gunshot wound around the hole.

Seeing John’s look, he grins. “Like it? It’s the hat I fell in. Hole courtesy of the rock.”

“Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson punched a hole in your hat?” Tom asks.

Francis rolls his eyes, but laughs nonetheless. Millie opens her mouth to ask something, eyebrows furrowed, but gets cut off by Martha.

“Scooch your seat, Jacky,” she says, plopping her lunch tray down on his right. She looks across him to see Francis sitting on his left and grins. “Francis, right?”

Francis smiles back broadly. “Yeah. Since when do you eat at this table, Mad Mattie?”

“Since I started dating this guy.” She bumps playfully into John’s side.

Francis frowns, looks back and forth between them a couple times. “Wait, but I thought…” And then John remembers that he already came out to Francis. He can’t remember if he used the word “gay” specifically, but frantically wracking his brain isn’t coming up with anything. He sends a silent prayer to whoever may be listening that Francis doesn’t say anything, that his own face doesn’t look panicked, that he makes it out of this situation without everything going horribly, horribly wrong.

Francis shakes his head and smiles. “Well, well, well, Turtle Man. And here I was thinking it had stopped at a surprise midnight kiss.” His smile looks genuine enough, but he eyes John curiously, like he wants to ask but knows he shouldn’t in front of everyone. “You’d think you have menti-”

“Guys, we can recap their get-together later,” Millie interrupts. “Babe, what happened to your head?”

Everyone turns to look at Francis’s head. The hat is distracting, but once you get past it, the hole reveals a shiny red patch of stitched up skin. Francis’s hand reaches up as if to touch it, but he draws back at the last second, probably remembering that contact is a bad idea. Instead, he adjusts the hat and clears his throat self-consciously.

“Oh. I fell on a rock.”

Millie’s eyes widen, then narrow. “You fell on a rock _when_?”

“Um, a week ago? Maybe a little more.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?!” Millie rakes a hand through her hair, tugging out a good portion of her braid in the process. John notices absently that her hair is dark brown, nearly black, at the roots. “Francis, I’ve been worried _sick_. I hardly heard a word from you over break, and then you dropped off the face of the earth!”

Francis shrugs jerkily, defensive. “I told you, I fell! I had to go to the hospital with a minor concussion and a freaking hole in my head, so I wasn’t exactly in a position to text, okay?”

“And when did you get out of the hospital?”

“A couple of days ago? They put me on a shit ton of painkillers. Getting me back to New york was a pain because I was high off my ass. I didn’t get on to, like, normal people medication until yesterday.”

Wait, hold on. Francis had definitely been able to text, at least marginally. John pinches the bridge of his nose and holds back an exasperated sigh.

“Francis,” he begins slowly, “blame the drugs or whatever, but… in the future, text your girlfriend first and foremost. She really was worried about you.”

“‘First and foremost’?” Millie repeats. “Oh. My god. Did you - seriously? Are you freaking serious? He texted _you_ , didn’t he?”

“Uh. Yes. He - he did do that.”

The glare Millie trains on Francis is, quite honestly, terrifying.

“I was so fucking high, Millie, I literally don’t even remember doing that!” Francis protests. “I didn’t even figure out that I texted him until I was going through my phone today, I - no listen to this, it’s incomprehensible.” He digs his phone out of his pocket as he says it and opens up the texts, then holds the phone out to Millie. “See? Like, if you wanted a ‘I’m still alive’ text, this would not have counted, I sound like a friggin’ zombie.”

Millie takes the phone stonily and looks at the screen. After a moment, she sighs, sets the phone down, and buries her head in her hands, and her shoulders start shaking. It takes a second to realize that she’s laughing, not crying.

Francis slides the phone back into his pocket. “Um. Babe? We good?”

Millie sniffs and wipes at her eyes (she may have been laughing _and_ crying, it’s… still hard to tell). She tucks her head onto Francis’s shoulder. “Never do something like that again. I was so worried, Francis, I - just try to text me? Even if you’re ridiculously, dysfunctionally high?”

“Yeah.” Francis grins. “I’ll try.” He places a kiss on her head and moves his hand to rest on her back.

Martha clicks her phone off. John hadn’t even realized she’d been on it, but then again, everyone else at the table had been following the argument like a heated ping pong match. This is what he has time to think before his phone starts blaring _Happy_ at full volume.

“Crap!” he yelps, scrambling to turn it down.

“Aw, Jacky!” Martha squeals. “You made my ringtone our song!”

Tom groans and thumps his head against the table, which probably hurts, but John knows he’s withstood worse for the sake of dramatics. “You guys are disgusting. All of you. You’re all cuddly and cute and shit, even you two with your stupid arguing, you sound like a fucking married couple. Why do I eat lunch with you people?” He raises one hand to point in the general direction of Aaron and James. “So help me, if you two start making out, I will lose it.”

“I’ll try to resist the overbearing temptation,” James deadpans as Aaron miscalculates the placement of his elbow and sends half a plate of rice falling into his lap.

John looks down to see that the text from Martha reads “how did u get stuck in the middle of this drama? also yikes millie is scary. and just like yikes in general to everything happening right now”, followed by a turtle emoji (she must remember Flos from his room). He smiles, then realizes he’d better change the subject if he doesn’t want Tom lambasting him for “grinning at his phone like a lovesick idiot.”

“Oh, wait, Francis!” he remembers. “You promised to text during break and I got exactly one message that just said something like ‘Europe is not foreign enough, it needs space aliens.’ How was it?”

Francis’s eyes light up. “Oh, man, it was amazing! We went on this guided tour thing, it took _hours_ but it was _so_ cool!”

For the rest of lunch, Francis gushes about Geneva and all its wonders. His hand never moves from its spot of Millie’s back, no matter how much Tom (subtly) pleads that everyone stop being so disgustingly cute.

And somehow, finally, it doesn’t bother John at all.

* * *

There is, John thinks, an art to texting Alex. Mainly this art involves getting used to a weird schedule. Alex texts at all hours, reasonable or not, and leaves whole paragraphs before going back to whatever he was doing before and not answering any response until he’s finished. It feels more like having a penpal than just texting someone.

For example: he gets this text on Sunday at 7:43 AM out of the blue.

**[Text from: HAM]** Why do people make such a large fuss over birthdays? It’s the anniversary of a birth, nothing more. Why is it reasonable to go up to someone and effectively say, “Congratulations! You’ve survived another year!” when it’s not generally acceptable to say that any other time of year? There’s this song from Alice in Wonderland, A Very Merry Unbirthday. I think that should be more of a thing. Our excuse for celebration shouldn’t be that x number of years ago we were forcibly evicted from someone’s uterus. And once you take time zones into account, it’s entirely illogical. Two babies can be born at exactly the same time, but due to time zones, one will always be considered older. And what’s the deal with gifts? Are they part of the congratulations, too, or is it something more like bribes to stay alive? And then, and then! people don’t congratulate you because they mean it, but rather because they feel they have to. It becomes less, “Good job on living another year!” and more, “Oh, yeah, you’re still here. Cool.” Instead of birthdays, we should have anniversaries for things in which we actually had some victory. First steps, first words, that sort of thing, anything except something we didn’t have a choice in.  
 **[Text from: HAM]** Anyway, my birthday was yesterday and Angelica has been harping me for not planning anything. She doesn’t seem to think that having some quiet time to get work done while eating the honeycrisps that Ned keeps insisting we buy counts as celebration, which is ridiculous, because it most certainly does.

John doesn’t know who Ned is, but his mind immediately flashes to the guy sitting next to Alex in history.

He taps his phone a couple times, trying to think of a response.

**[Text to: HAM]** Maybe it’s less of a congratulations, and more of an allotted time where you get an excuse to do some things you usually wouldn’t. You know, eat cake for breakfast, buy things you don’t need, push off the work you don’t want to do for a bit.  
 **[Text to: HAM]** Enjoy your apples, Alex. Happy Birthday ;).

John feels bad sending something so short in response to Alex’s paragraph(s), but he can’t think of anything else to say. He keeps deleting the winky face and then adding it back in, because without it the statement might not come across as a joke, but with it it looks much flirtier than John intended. Not that he had any intent to be flirty in the first place, of course. Of course not.

He leaves it in and hits send before he can talk himself out of it again.

It’s not until he’s absently looking for Alex at lunch the next day that he considers that maybe, despite his best efforts, he’s kind of developing a Thing for Alex. He dismisses the thought almost immediately. John’s not incapable of appreciating that a guy is attractive without having a crush on him, and anyway, he does not need to fall for another guy who isn’t interested in him.

Because Alex isn’t. Sure, their interactions seemed like flirting at first (Millie certainly seemed to think so), but John is pretty sure that’s just Alex’s personality. He’s even flirtier with Angelica, who pretends not to like it. Hell, he’s the same way with _Nathan_ , who really doesn’t seem interested but takes it in stride. It’s like he has three modes of interaction: angry and intentionally aggravating, flirtatious, or coldly indifferent. It’s like Alex either hates or loves anyone he’s ever met. So the fact that he makes a bunch of innuendos when he’s talking to John and sometimes sends him vaguely poetic texts at 3 AM doesn’t mean anything.

“Jacky,” Martha tells him upon hearing this analysis, “as your token straight friend, let me tell you: he’s flirting with you.”

“Okay, I’ve never really considered myself as having a ‘token straight friend,’ nor had I realized that was in any way a thing, but if I had one, I’m pretty sure it would be Tom.”

Martha waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t change the subject. My point is,” she elbows him in the side lightly and wriggles her eyebrows, “there’s definitely something goin’ on there.”

John rolls his eyes. “No. There isn’t. Martha, have you met this guy?”

“Sure. Remember at Dolly’s party when I told you that I tried the ‘you’re the man, lead’ line on someone who gave we a lecture on gender roles?”

“Oh my god. It wasn’t. Seriously? That was Alex?”

“Kinda hard to mistake him for someone else since Ned got a haircut.”

So the guy in history class _is_ Ned. “Okay, who the heck is Ned?”

“Alex’s brother. Sort of. I think Alex is adopted.”

“Wait, what? He and Ned look like they could be twins!”

“I know, right? Freshman year there were _so_ many rumors about what the deal with that was. It was pretty annoying, actually, but if you want to hear the really fun theories, ask Sybil. I swear she had this catalogued or something.”

John doesn’t ask, but he does consider it. Not because he thinks any of the rumors will hold any weight, but because he has a lot of questions that he wants to ask _someone_. For all he and Alex are texting now, he hardly knows anything about Alex’s personal life. Then again, Alex knows hardly anything about John’s. He hasn’t even told Alex he’s technically dating Martha, mostly because it doesn’t really matter (because he’s not actually dating her and he’s _not_ flirting with Alex), but also because he figures Alex probably knows.

And anyway, Alex’s flirty personality is trained at basically all of his friends, regardless of whether or not they’re dating anyone. Including Nathan.

John and Nathan are working on another minor assignment in Literary Analysis together on Tuesday. The piece they’re looking over is chock full of obscure references that they have to keep looking up on Nathan’s phone. They’re in the middle of trying to figure out who Evadne is supposed to be when Nathan gets a notification that someone called “PH” followed by a heart emoji has texted him with a link of something that reminded them of him.

“Who’s that?” John asks as Nathan snatches the phone off the table and tilts it so John can’t see the screen.

“No one!” Nathan yelps. “Nothing! It’s not - it’s nobody. It’s -” he giggles, a little panicked, “it’s nobody, I’m texting Odysseus.” He taps something, probably opening up the text, and grins down at whatever the message was before remembering that he’s supposedly not texting anyone.

John smiles. “Betsey?”

“What? No.”

“Really? Because you were smiling like someone you like just sent you a cute message.” Well. Now he sounds like Johnny.

“I was…?” Nathan’s eyes widen and he bursts out laughing (then quiets down when Mr. Bentham shushes him). “Oh my gosh, you think I’m dating Betsey? Who told you that?”

“I, uh, figured it out myself. At the New Year’s party, you two were cuddled up at midnight, so I sort of… pieced it together.”

Nathan’s still chuckling. “Oh man. Me and Betsey? Seriously? I’ve got to tell her about this, she’s not gonna believe it. Do you know what an absolutely horrible pair we would make?”

John frowns. “What?”

“I mean, we’re pretty good friends, yeah, but dating-wise? Oh, heck no. I mean I’m -” he falters and clears his throat. “It - it wouldn’t work, is all I’m saying.”

“So… are you dating PH?”

“Yeah,” Nathan responds automatically, then, “Wait! No! I didn’t - I’m not - ah, crap.” He sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m dating PH. Just - just don’t tell anyone, okay? Probably no one knows them, but, I just don’t want it getting out, okay?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” John promises. “Sorry if I pushed you.”

Nathan shrugs. “Nah, it’s - it’s fine. I mean, maybe in the future don’t make assumptions, but… seriously? Me and _Betsey_?”

When John gets home, he finds a text from Alex from about 15 minutes ago waiting on his phone.

**[Text from: HAM]** I stopped by one of the art rooms today during lunch. Mr. Goya was cleaning up after one of his classes. I think they were doing a color study. There were all these different swatches of color, a lot of blues, which probably had something to do with whatever lesson Goya had been teaching. It reminded me of your eyes. I couldn’t see the labels from where I was standing, and Goya gets snippy if you try to go into the class while he’s cleaning up, so I can’t tell you what any of the shades were called, but I’m positive that at least 10 of them are in your eyes.

And see, this is the sort of stuff that makes John wonder. Because he has no way of knowing if Alex is like this with all of his friends, if Angelica or Nathan or, hell, even James get texts that compliment their eyes and talk about what reminded Alex about them during his day.

**[Text to: HAM]** Thank you. This was a really nice message to find at the end of a long day.  
 **[Text to: HAM]** I imagine Goya was teaching his lesson on coloring the sky. The other colors were probably whites, yellows, and some purples, right? Maybe more, if he was doing sunsets.  
 **[Text to: HAM]** Your eye color was probably closer to the nighttime section. That purple dusky color the sky turns when it’s not quite dark, but the moon is getting clearer.

He’s surprised when Alex starts typing a reply; it’s not often they have a continuous conversation over text.

**[Text from: HAM]** See, I knew there was a reason I wanted to talk to you. Plenty of the people I text respond “k” or something to my texts, but you respond like you really thought about it. I like that about you.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ John mouths. He’s not sure why it makes him so happy.

**[Text to: HAM]** How long have you wanted to talk to me?

He feels impulsive sending it, but it’s also a proven fact that his best decisions are not made immediately after school, so he hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

**[Text from: HAM]** Since you punched Chuck in history. He had it coming. I’d have done it myself forever ago, but Washington guessed my intentions and explicitly forbid me, specifically, from doing anything of the like. But between you and me, I’m pretty sure Washington wanted him to get socked, too. That kid is horrible. I have math with him and Dick, and they were making fun of the Thursday LGBT meetings and the notion of safe spaces in general on TWO separate occasions.

**[Text to: HAM]** You know, people kept telling me that punching him wasn’t the solution, but I’m starting to think otherwise.  
 **[Text to: HAM]** Also: what LGBT meetings?

**[Text from: HAM]** Thursday after school there are LGBT meetings in room 118. There’s no attendance, and it lasts about two hours, starting 15 minutes after school ends. It’s really fun. There’s usually food.

**[Text to: HAM]** Huh. Maybe I’ll go.

**[Text from: HAM]** I look forwards to potentially seeing you there.

Thursdays. So, that gives him a day or so to figure out an excuse for staying two hours after school to tell Henry.

* * *

“It’s this anti-bullying group or something. You know, like, creating safe spaces in the school? It’s two hours after school on Thursdays. Do you think I could go?”

Henry doesn’t even stop scribbling on the form he’s filling out. “Sure.”

“Will you be able to pick me up?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Today?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Awesome. Thanks, dad.”

John returns to his cereal and tries to ignore the way his hands are shaking. He managed to sound casual enough, but he’s freaking out on the inside for so many reasons. Lying to Henry, lying to Henry about going to an LGBT meeting, _going to an LGBT meeting_. It’s a lot to deal with.

First period PE, Alex succeeds again in his game of “piss off Steuben until he retreats into his office, Peter mysteriously disappears, and we have free time in the weight room.” No less than five minutes in, he’s already in the corner typing away on his laptop, which he somehow managed to sneak in while no one was looking.

John takes to the weights. It’s not long before Francis wanders over to talk to him.

“Hey, Turtle Man, how’s it going?”

John puts down the weights (which he was exercising with using proper form this time, thank you very much) and smiles up at Francis (who probably stands instead of sitting for these conversations because it’s the only time he’s taller than John). “Pretty good. You?”

Francis nods vaguely. “Yeah. Fine.”

“…are you sure?”

Francis bites his lip, shrugs his shoulders. “I… can I talk to you? Like, somewhere less crowded?”

There’s something in his tone that has John worried. “Of course. Uh, no one should be in any of the locker rooms, if that -” Francis is already nodding.

John looks around to make sure no one’s looking in their general direction and makes his way to the door, holding it open for Francis. Francis is quiet all the way to the locker room, just stares at his sneakers. When they get there, he sits down on one of the benches and takes a breath.

“So… how did you know you were, um.” He waves his hand. “You know.”

“Gay?” There’s a knot in his stomach when he says the word, an involuntary panic, even though Francis already knows.

“Wait, not - not bi? But what about -” Francis’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, Martha’s a beard. For the love of - she _knows_ though, right? You’re not, like, leading her on?”

Oh, shit, that’s right. Martha. “No, yeah, she knows. She’s - it’s sort of helping her, too? Her parent are really strict, but now that they think she’s dating someone, they won’t worry about her flirting with people.”

Francis stares at him for a couple seconds. “Right. Okay. Whatever works for you. But, no, my question was -”

“- how did I know.”

Francis nods.

John lets out a long breath and leans against the lockers. He can’t - _won’t_ \- tell Francis that he didn’t know until he fell for him. But maybe if he just… doesn’t mention who he had a crush on?

“Uh, well. I mean, I never really liked girls. And when I was little, there was this kid I used to play with - Alex Jr., he was a family friend - and… I’m pretty sure I had a crush on him. I didn’t realize until, uh, a lot later. I - I didn’t really realize it - that I was, uh, you know, gay - until I was basically, uh, forced to. You, uh, you remember, when you figured out I had a crush?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, that was really what forced me to figure it out. It was, uh… why do you want to know?”

Francis doesn’t answer for a couple seconds, just looks at his hands. “I… I think - I think I might be, um. Bi.” He lets out a sharp breath. “Okay. Okay, I - I said that, that’s out there, that’s - heh, “out”. Um. Okay. I said it and - and the world didn’t end.” He lets out a forced laugh. “That’s good! That’s good…”

John’s head is spinning. All this time, he’d thought Francis was straight, he’d managed to _will himself out of a crush because of this_ , and… and, well, it was a superficial crush to begin with. He makes himself stop leaning on the lockers, walk over to Francis, place a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Francis? Forehead Guy? Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me. If you, uh, if you ever need to talk about anything…”

Francis’s smile is bright enough to light up the (smelly, in-need-of-repairs) locker room.

John doesn’t see Francis again for the rest of the day, except at lunch, which Francis mostly spends quietly chewing his food. He nods when Millie asks if everything is alright.

By the end of the day, John feels like he’s going to explode. He has precisely zero idea what to expect at the LGBT meeting, and the idea of coming out as gay to a large group of people, regardless of them all being LGBT, too, _terrifies_ him. After art, he makes his way to room 118, puts his backpack down, sits, and focuses on breathing properly. Goya let the class out early, so he and a petite girl he thinks he might have seen in the halls once or twice are the only ones in the room. She has choppy hair dyed grey-blue, and when she glances up at him, he sees that her eyes are the same color. She’s wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt with a cat on it.

Little by little, people start to trickle in. Some of them John isn’t surprised to see, like Sarah and Ellie, but there are some he didn’t expect. Nathan and Betsey, for instance, which might explain why Nathan found it so hilarious that John thought they were dating.

“John!” Sarah greets upon seeing him. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. Oh, but don’t get me wrong, that's so great!"

“Uh, thanks.”

The last person to walk in is a middle-aged woman in a red dress and a lot of makeup. She looks around the room and smiles.

“Alright,” she says, with a startlingly low and masculine voice, “let’s get the seats in a circle.”

“Who’s that?” John asks Sarah as he’s moving a desk.

“That’s Marge. She’s great. I think she works in the office or something, I never see her outside of meetings.”

Once everyone’s seated, John finds himself between Sarah and Alex, the latter of whom grins at him when he sees that he made it to the meeting.

Marge sits down delicately in one of the seats. “I see some new faces today, so I’ll just go over how introduction works. When we get to you, say your name, pronouns, and… who’s got a good question for today?”

“Can we do Thorns, Buds, and Roses?” Sarah requests.

“Oh! Yes, let’s do that. For those who don’t know, that’s where you say something good that happened this week, something bad that happened this week, and something you’re looking forwards to. I’ll start. I’m Marge -”

“Hi, Marge,” half of the group choruses.

“What are you in for?” the girl in the cat T-shirt calls out.

Marge smiles. It’s obviously an old joke. “She/her pronouns. Hm, let’s see… my thorn would probably have to be, well - you know that date I said I was going on last time?”

“That bad, huh?” asks Nathan.

“Oh, don’t get me started! He - well, that’s a story for another time. My rose, a couple of my girlfriends took me to see a live production of Hairspray, which was loads of fun.” She flips her hair. “I know it’s traditionally a male role, but I think I’d make a fantastic Edna.”

She gets some scattered laughs around the room. John starts to loosen up a bit; whatever he was expecting, this is a lot more casual.

“Anyway, my bud is that I’m helping open this gay bar down the street from my house that we’ve been trying for _forever_ to get up and running.” She pauses as people start cheering. “I can’t invite any of you, of course, but when you get older, well, I’ll fight to still have it around by then, that’s for sure.”

They go around the circle from there. All told, there are 14 people, not including John: Nathan, Ben, Ellie, Sarah, Benny, William, Alex, Johnny, Jack, Jay-Jay, Raucourt, Sophie Arnould, Cat Shirt Girl, and Betsey. John hadn’t seen the point in listing pronouns, but quickly realizes why it’s important when three separate people list off pronouns he wasn’t expecting. Johnny uses either male or gender-neutral pronouns. Alex doesn’t have a preference for pronouns at all. Cat Shirt Girl isn’t actually a girl, and their name is Catlett. (The “they/them” pronouns are pretty confusing to John at first, but Alex does a good job of explaining what non-binary is.)

“John,” John says when it’s his turn. “He/him pronouns. My thorn is probably, uh, lying to my dad so I could go to this meeting.” A couple people around the circle nod and murmur agreements (John thinks he hears "same" from someone). “A rose... I think I’m gonna go with a friend coming back from the hospital. We hadn’t heard from him in over a week. Apparently he fell on a rock.”

“Oh, Francis…” someone mutters.

“And my bud, the school’s finally having us look at colleges, so in theory I’m going to be able to visit some soon.”

According to Alex, the meetings only have themes about half of the time. Today is not one of those times. They end up on the floor coloring in pictures and talking, which is actually amazing. John’s never heard so many gay jokes in his life. He learns quickly that saying the words “straight,” “closet,” “ace,” or “rainbow” (to list a few) in absolutely any context leads to a joke, and also that any time someone talks about something they don’t want to do or can’t do, “I’m too gay for that” is a popularly used excuse (gay tends to get used as an umbrella term a lot).

At some point, John starts drawing his own pictures on the back of the coloring sheets instead of coloring them in.

“Woah,” says a voice over his shoulder. He looks over to see Catlett studying the drawing he’s working on of a turtle. “Dude. You’re good.”

“Thanks. Do you draw?”

“A little. Mostly anime stuff.” They reach over to where they were sitting and retrieve their own sheet of paper, where they’ve drawn, incredibly well, a character that John doesn’t know.

“That’s really good,” he says, completely honest. “Your shading is fantastic.”

"Thanks." The way Catlett’s lips twitch against a grin as they duck their head down is oddly familiar.

“Hey, do I - have we met before?” John asks.

Catlett shakes their head. “No, I don’t think so. But maybe you’ve seen my brother? I mean, he has like two friends, so I doubt you’ve talked to him, but, y’know, maybe.”

“Wait.” Now that he thinks about it, the resemblance is definitely there. “Catlett… Madison?”

They nod.

“I _have_ talked to James, actually. I’m friends with him. Or, at least, I think I am.”

Catlett raises their brow. “You’re friends with Jemmy? You, sir, are one of a rare few.”

John laughs. He gets the feeling he’s going to get along well with Catlett.

About 20 minutes before the meeting ends, John hears Betsey laughing - no, _guffawing_ \- over something Nathan says. She keeps looking in John’s direction. Finally, she turns to ask something to Nathan, who nods, and she makes her way over to John.

“My buddy,” she says, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder, “my man, my dude. Me and Nathan dating is like, the least technically compatible relationship in the history of ever.” She starts laughing again and has to compose herself. “I mean, look, he’s ace and I’m aro. Can you even imagine?”

He blinks. “I… don’t know what that means.”

“Oh right, baby gay, you don’t know the terms yet.” John’s not sure how he feels about being called a “baby gay,” but he rolls with it. “Asexual means you don’t feel sexual attraction. Aromantic means you don’t feel romantic attraction. It’d be like trying to shove opposite ends of a magnet together if magnets worked differently than they actually do, because we’re both looking for different things and this metaphor was a failure from the very start.”

“Wow,” John laughs. “I can see why you guys found that so entertaining.”

“Plus, Nathan? Seriously? I love the dude to bits, but he is definitely not my type.”

And that’s basically what the meeting is like. Laughing with friends, bonding with people over terrible puns, and generally having a good time. When Henry comes to pick him up, John has to find an excuse for why an anti-bullying meeting is making him grin from ear to ear.

* * *

For all Henry was reluctant to let Mary get her hair cut shorter, it makes the morning go by much faster when no one has to force her to brush her hair, a process which could regularly take up to 15 minutes if Mary was feeling stubborn. Now Mary has a bob which is much easier to maintain, and with which she’s extremely pleased.

As for Elias, his hair is nearly to his chin now. He’s borrowed (read: stolen and lost) so many of Mary’s clips so far that Hester finally went out and bought him his own. According to Andre, he’d look like he was going through an emo phase if it wasn’t for the fact that he keeps wearing colorful clothing.

So as Mary enjoys not having to brush her hair as much, Elias has to get used to brushing his. Which means that they get out the door earlier than usual, but only marginally. Either which way, it means John gets to school a little earlier than usual.

He’s walking to homeroom when he runs into Sarah and Martha. Well, nearly runs into them. They’re coming out of the girl’s bathroom as he passes it, and he has to stop short to avoid barreling straight into them.

Which… does not explain why Sarah shoots him a death glare when he tries to apologize. He’s about to ask what he did wrong when he notices that Martha’s eyes puffy and red.

“Martha, are you okay?” he asks, reaching out to place a hand on her arm.

Sarah tugs her away. “She’s fine.”

“I can talk for myself, Sarah,” Martha protests. “I’m - I’m fine, Jacky. It’s nothing to worry about.”

She lets Sarah pull her down the hall, and as they go, John thinks he hears her tell Sarah, “Don’t blame him, Sar, it’s not his fault.”

Martha tries to maintain normal conversation for the rest of the day, but something’s obviously troubling her. Thing is, she won’t tell John what it is, so he has no idea why Sarah would blame him enough to give him wary looks or flat out ignore him every time she passes him in the hall.

He sends Martha a text after school.

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Hey, I know you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, but hang in there, okay? I’m here if you want to talk.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** thanks, jacky  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** everything’s fine. sarah’s just overreacting  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** have a good weekend!

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** You, too!

John can’t believe it’s nearly the weekend, but he also can’t believe that it’s only Friday. He feels like this week has stretched on forever.


	10. Powerhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Screw it,” McHenry says finally. “All we’ve got. If we go down, we go down in flames.”
> 
> Peggy nods solemnly. She extends a hand to McHenry, who shakes it, and then to John. “Gentlemen, it was an honor serving with you.”

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Do you have Mr. Howe, and is he as horrible of a human being in your class, too?  
 **[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Also, to answer your question about how things are going with me and “Gingersnap”: I got a text from him yesterday that said he thought my shirt brought out my eyes. This seems like something that could be reasonably sent platonically.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** ok first off? i sent you that text about ginger snap 3 days ago and your just answering now.  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** second off, I’VE used that line on people that is 100 percent flirting dear lord jacky!  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** also no i don’t have howe what did he do?

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Ed has been trying to change his assigned seat and Howe won’t let him.  
 **[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Keep in mind that Ed is four rows in and uses a wheelchair.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** seriously? the fuck, man. that’s gotta be grounds for some sort of trouble, not having a classroom b handicap accessible  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** anyway  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** GINGERSNAP IS FLIRTING WITH YOU PLEASE ACCEPT THIS.

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** What is it with you and the strange nicknames?

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** DON’T CHANGE THE TOPIC  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** oh shit sorry caps lock was still on  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** also shhh its a fitting nickname  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** plus  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** “Forehead Guy”?

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Will I ever live that down?

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** no.  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** (also "dear girl"? your one 2 talk)  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** are you like not interesting in gingersnap or something?

John starts typing “Yes that’s exactly it” before he realizes it’s a lie. Crap. He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to think of a way to respond.

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** I guess I just don’t want to have another crush?  
 **[Text to: My Dear Girl]** I’m finally getting over Francis, I just kinda want a break from, I dunno, stuff.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** stuff?

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Stuff.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** well gee, thanks for being so specific.  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** but like if you decide you don’t hate “stuff” just remember that we can break up at any time  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** seeing as we’re not really dating

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Do you WANT to break up?

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** nah its cool. my parents think im in a legit relationship so theyre finally of my back  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** they want to meet you at some point, im fending them off

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** I could meet them if that’s more… I dunno, believable? Convenient?

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** lying to my parents in general and in person are two seperate things. im gonna go witha no on that for now  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** also i should go do homework  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** *shaking fist* suck a dick pat

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Ha. Have fun.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** see the thing is that isn’t funny because i won’t and it sucks  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** ttyl jacky

**[Text to: My Dear Girl]** Bye, dear girl.

**[Text from: My Dear Girl]** you know its a weird nickname but its growing on me  
 **[Text from: My Dear Girl]** uuuuuugh homework, bye

John smiles and clicks off his phone. He hears the front door swing open, then shut. Hester must be back. She usually gets home before him (especially on Tuesdays, but he managed to talk Henry out of forcing him to see Phil today), but she headed straight to the store to pick up ingredients for something she wanted to make for dinner. She recently found a shop within biking distance, but hadn’t gotten a chance to go until today because of all the snow.

John makes his way to the kitchen, taking his remaining homework with him. It’s just science, which isn’t much, since he already finished his math homework, he doesn't have anything in Literary Analysis, and he’s pushing off his French project to Not Today. His only other class today was Health, where they watched a video about consent that used a metaphor about tea that made Francis reconsider the implications of his poem.

“Hey, Jack,” Hester greets as John settles at the table and tries to remember how forces work. “Who’s Alexander?”

John somehow manages to choke on air. “What? I - uh, he’s - he’s a friend from school, he, uh, how did - when? Uh. Why do you ask?” He’s racking his brain, trying to think of why Hester knows anyone named Alexander - besides Alex Jr. - who also knows John.

Hester turns from the pan sizzling on the stove and raises an eyebrow (probably at John’s expression). “Well, I met a charming cashier at Cruger’s today who thought he recognized me, because apparently our features are very similar. Redhead? Purple eyes? He seemed to really like you.” She lowers her voice at the last bit, so John knows _exactly_ how she means it.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” John hisses back.

Hester raises the other eyebrow. “Okay, wow. I’m not sure who else is saying that, but maybe it holds some weight? Then again, what does it matter, if you have Martha…” Right. They still haven’t really talked about that. Any time Martha comes up, Hester goes quiet, but John’s been too busy - or maybe too good at avoiding things - to talk to her about it.

John glances at his science homework and decides he can do it later. “Are you… are you mad about Martha?”

“Why would I be?” Hester isn’t looking at him any more, just stirring the contents of the pan with one hand and fiddling with a pepper shaker with the other.

“Because you might feel like I lied to you?” John guesses. “Or like I’m lying to Martha, but since you seemed pissed at her…”

“She knows though, right?” Hester asks quietly. “Or… is there anything for her to know?”

“Yeah, she knows. The only person I’m lying to is - uh, well, I was going to say ‘dad,’ but I guess -”

“Everyone?” She turns around now, but John can’t read her expression. John drops his gaze.

Hester sighs. “I guess… I feel like you chose an easy out?” To his credit, John doesn’t snicker at ‘out.’ “Which, okay, fine, that’s okay. That’s fine. I don’t know. Maybe because, I feel like it wasn’t necessary. Or maybe I just think, like, ‘I should have thought of that.’ I think - I think I just didn’t like that you sprang it on me, like, out of the blue.”

John tilts his head in silent agreement. “In my defense, I was just as surprised to see her here as you. But I’m sorry. I get how that could have been confusing.”

Hester shrugs, smiles a little. “Ya think? Just, in the future, maybe - uh, hi, Elias.”

John whips around and sees Elias awkwardly standing in the doorway, eyes flicking between Hester and John. “Uh. Hi. Dinner smells good.” He pauses like he’s not sure what to say next, then heads back out of the kitchen, mumbling, “I’ll go get Andre.”

Hester turns down the heat in the pan. “I don’t even want to know what they’re up to.”

“Do you think he overheard anything?” John asks nervously.

“If he did,” Hester counters, “do you think he has enough context to understand what we were talking about?”

John concedes that no, he probably doesn’t, and Hester returns her focus to the contents of the pan, which are starting to smell mouth-wateringly good. John’s about to try another stab at his homework when his phone starts quietly playing the first couple bars of Purple Eyes by The Knocks. (John may or may not have looked up a song about purple eyes for the sole purpose of making it Alex’s ringtone.)

**[Text from: HAM]** Your sister seems nice. Tell her to check the expiration dates on those eggs. I can’t remember if I warned her or not. Enjoy dinner!

John looks up. “Uh, Hester? Alex says to check the expiration dates on the eggs.”

“He already warned me. We’re cutting it close, but you guys eat enough that we should finish them all before they go bad. Mind you,” she raises her spatula to emphasize the point, “I’m not getting perishables from there again. It’s all fine, probably, but some of it? Very close to worrisome.”

John nods and shoots back a quick text.

**[Text to: HAM]** Thanks. Eggs are fine. See you tomorrow!

* * *

Ed isn’t a complainer. John figured that out about him pretty quickly. When the workload in Literary Analysis gets to the heavy side, Ed quietly accepts it while everyone else groans. When Dick starts being aggravating again (which isn’t quite as often as it used to be, but that’s not saying much, and also John might just be getting used to it), Ed is the one who tries to talk reason with him (usually). In fact, the most riled up John’s ever seen him is when he’s repeating James’s retorts because no one outside of a one seat radius can hear a word James is saying.

So, maybe it makes sense that after three weeks of Mr. Howe, Ed still diligently makes his way to his assigned seat, four rows in, moving desks as he goes. In fact, John’s not sure he’d have ever made a fuss, except for the fact that he can’t rearrange the desks by himself; someone else has to help remove the desk sitting where Ed is supposed to park, someone else has to help drag desks out of the way, someone else has to make sure he has room to do it. So in the end, it’s his friends that finally speak up.

Chaim Solomon officially asked Mr. Howe last week if Ed could move. Howe had made some comment about how Ed wasn’t that far in, and that Ed himself didn’t seem to have an issue with it. Nathan and Angelica seemed about ready to strangle Howe at this point, but Ed did his best to calm them down. He did, however, finally agree to something of a peaceful protest.

Which is why, second period on Wednesday, Howe is refusing to start class.

“Edmund,” he commands, “please go to your assigned seat.”

Ed casts a glance at James, who gives him a thumbs up. “In all fairness, sir,” he replies, turning back to Howe, “I’m in the same seat I always sit in.”

There are some snickers around the room. Howe’s jaw sets in a way John recognizes, having seen the same look on Henry; he’s going to see this argument through as a matter of pride, even if it’s ridiculous and downright wrong.

“Edmund,” he says slowly. “If you refuse to go to your assigned seat, I will be forced to send you to the principal's office.”

“Would you like to wheel him there, sir?” Dick asks. It’s the first time John appreciates his intentional aggravating.

Howe focuses the glare on Dick. “Do not talk out of turn, John, or I’ll make sure you’re in the same place.”

“Are you gonna break my legs?” Dick asks, eyes wide and innocent, but a shit-eating grin across his features. “Also, I’m not John.” He points at John. “He’s John. I’m Dick. You gotta keep it straight, sir, it gets confusing.”

John catches himself before he snickers at “keep it straight.”

“Out,” Howe orders. “Go to the principal’s office. Both of you!”

“Sir,” Ed starts again as Dick trudges out of the room grumbling not-so-quiet sarcastic comments, “I’m perfectly willing to go to my assigned spot, but I’ll need some help getting there. It’s really easier if you just let me stay on the end. I’m not bothering anyone.”

“He can switch with me,” offers Chaim, who sits near the back on the end row.

“Principal’s office,” Howe repeats.

“What is he going to tell Principal George?” Nathan asks. “That your class isn’t easily accessible to people in wheelchairs?”

“Nathan and Haym,” Howe warns, butchering the pronunciation of Chaim’s name, “I am not above sending several people to the office.”

“How about the whole class?” Angelica asks. “Exactly how many people are you willing to send?”

“Five people is hardly the whole class.”

“Six,” says James. “And at this point, we could start a better class in the office.”

Howe frowns. “What did you say?”

“Seven,” says John. “And he said we could start a better class in the office at this point. It’s much more handicap accessible than here.”

“Eight!” Ben yells, standing up. “Chaim offered to switch with him, sir. I’m sure you’ll find that’s the best option for a functioning classroom.”

“Damn right, Tall-boy!” Caleb adds. He stands up, too, grinning at Ben. John hasn’t gotten much of a chance to meet Caleb yet, but from what he’s seen, the dude’s pretty awesome.

“Fine!” Howe explodes. He stalks back to his desk and sits down heavily. “Benjamin, Caleb, sit _down_. Haym, move to Edmund’s seat. And not a word out of any of you for the rest of class unless you have your hand raised!”

Nathan looks back at John, smiling triumphantly. The message in his eyes is clear: _we’re starting to break him in._

John tells the story to Alex once Lit Mag starts winding down for the day. They didn’t have many pieces to go over that day, so there’s plenty of time left once the meeting is over to talk.

“How the fuck do they choose the teachers here?” Alex demands. “Like, after the interview, turning to each other saying, ‘Oh, he was horrible! Let’s hire him!’”

John smirks. “Sounds accurate. God, sometimes I’m half tempted to work here when I grow up, just to fix everything.”

Alex makes a face. “Ugh. Fix everything from elsewhere. Once you graduate, you’re free. Why go back?” He reaches back and fixes his ponytail. “All of the problems that exist in this school exist outside of it. I mean, how many female teachers do we have? None-White teachers? How about any teacher that’s not either atheist or Christian? My bet’s on one in each category, max. That’s not just a problem in this school, it’s a problem everywhere.” He’s talking faster now, voice rising and falling with excitement. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get out of this hell-hole, and I’m going to be a lawyer for minorities. Immigrants spurned by their country, victims of racist hate crimes, queer people denied rights, that sort of thing. We shouldn’t have to put up with this shit. And I can _do_ something about it. I mean, look, I’m already white-passing, I automatically get more privilege for that, so I - what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

It takes a second for John to realize what he means. “Oh. Uh. Well, up until a second ago, because you’re a captivating speaker,” he admits. “But, uh, what do you mean by ‘white-passing’?”

Alex does something between a smile and a grimace. “My mom was half Black. I look more like my father, in that regard. Look, the point is, I want to do something good for the world.”

John smiles. “No, I get that. And, I mean, me too. Maybe not in the sense you mean, but… I want to be a doctor. Remember when we talked about healthcare in Health class? And how often do racism and health providers go hand in hand?”

Alex grins and rests his chin in his hand. “I like the way you think.”

Eventually, the conversation moves to the hallway, because Alex wants to get to his math class early to talk to the teacher about something. As they make their way past Mr. Paul Jones’s room, John sees Francis chatting idly with Sybil. When Francis notices them, he makes a “one moment” motion to Sybil and jogs over to John.

“Hey, Turtle Man! And, um, Alex, right?”

Alex casts him a glance, quirks a half smile. “Yeah. And you’re Francis?”

John shakes off the uneasy feeling of worlds colliding as Alex and Francis make their brief introductions. The conversation doesn’t change course much as Alex steers them towards his math class, and Francis wanders along with them, not adding much. Once Alex stops off at his classroom and bids adieu to John (and, as an afterthought, Francis), Francis turns to John and grins.

“Will your grandiose goals never cease?” he teases. “First curing cancer, now tackling institutionalized racism… hey, why stop there? Tackle the whole freakin’ system, man. Down with the government!”

John frowns. “Francis, I’m serious when I say I - okay, _you_ were the one who brought up the ‘curing cancer’ thing, which doesn’t mean I can’t try, but… you know I’m serious, right?”

Francis shrugs. “Sure, whatever. Just as long as you know that’s kind of unrealistic.” The electronic sound of a duck quacking goes off faintly in Francis’s pocket. Francis doesn’t seem to notice.

“I mean,” John counters, “if you’d told people in the 1700s that one day vaccines would be safe and clean to use, they’d have said that was unrealistic, too. Or if you told someone in the ‘20s that gay rights would be a thing. Everything’s unrealistic until it happens.”

“That’s different,” Francis says. Another ‘quack’ in his pocket goes ignored.

John stops. “Why?”

Francis stops a step or so ahead of him and turns around. “What?”

“Why is it different?”

Francis shifts uncomfortably. “I dunno. It just is. Like, you stop wanting to be a rock star eventually. You figure out, like… I dunno, regular people don’t do things like that. It just doesn’t happen.”

“Except when it does!” John insists. “Are you seriously telling me I should just - just give up because trying to do something important, something good, might be hard?”

“Because it might be impossible!” Francis corrects. “No, because it probably _is_ impossible, at least where humanity is right now!” His phone goes off again, and he grimaces, hand hovering over his pocket, but ultimately ignores it again.

“Is that what you do?” John demands. “Do you just - you asked me a couple of times if I’d ever need competent school courses in my life. Is this how you live? Assuming you don’t need to know things because your dreams are - who is _texting you_?!” He throws the last bit in as Francis’s phone quacks yet again, prompting Francis to dig it out of his pocket and silence it.

“Nothing. _No one_.” Francis shrugs again and cards a hand through his hair (which flops over against his hand; John doesn’t think Francis has had a haircut in all the time they’ve known each other). “It doesn’t matter. Look, do you seriously not realize how naive it is to think you’ll get out of college and save the world?”

“Do you seriously not realize how pessimistic it is to think I shouldn’t even try?”

“Fine. Whatever. Be a superhero. Good luck, you’ll - oh, shut _up_ , will you!” He hisses the last part as his phone - which apparently didn’t fully silence - vibrates against his leg.

“Francis, for god’s sake, who are you ignoring?” A thought occurs, one he doesn’t like, but that doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. “Please tell me it’s not Millie.”

“It’s not Millie,” Francis parrots back. He won’t meet John’s eye.

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why are you ignoring Millie? Again?”

“Again?” Francis repeats. “Oh, do _not_ tell me you’re gonna get on my case about winter break, not you, too!”

“So you _were_ ignoring her?”

“No!” Francis throws his hands up in frustration. “No, I fucking wasn’t! And if y’all would get off my ass about it, I’d be _super fucking appreciative_!” Francis usually has a subtle Southern accent, but it’s becoming more and more noticeable the more upset he gets. (John’s pretty sure the same thing happened the first time he had to explain why he hadn’t been texting Millie.)

“Isn’t the key to relationships supposed to be communication?”

Francis glares at him. “Don’t you lecture me about relationships, John, you have a fucking _beard_.” And thank god that no one seems to be around because Francis didn’t bother to check and he sure isn’t being quiet.

“I’m just trying to help,” John says stonily.

“Well don’t. It’s none of your business.” The 5 minute bell for fourth period punctuates Francis’s closing statement. Francis looks away. “I have to go get my stuff for math,” he mumbles. “See you in class.”

John watches him go in silence.

* * *

“As you all know,” Dr. Warren starts class on Friday, “we will be having a test soon, because the school system requires me to grade you on something other than attendance and behavior. In light of this, I’ve come up with a review game of Jeopardy using a template I found on the internet. As usual, the team that chooses the question will get a chance to answer before I call on anyone else.” He starts fiddling with the projector. “Please get into groups of three.”

Peggy, James McHenry, and John all automatically turn towards each other.

“You’re going McFreakin’ down, McHenry,” Peggy jokes.

McHenry scoffs. “In your dreams, Margarita. Besides, can’t we join forces in the name of totally owning the competition?”

Peggy pretends it’s a hard decision (the three of them always end up grouped up in Dr. Warren’s class, but they always joke about it, anyway). She turns to John. “I don’t know. What say you, Jacky?”

John rolls his eyes. He’d managed to go by just ‘John’ for so long, but people keep hearing Martha call him ‘Jacky’ and picking up on it. “Well, let’s see, Jimmy. What do you know about health?”

“The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” McHenry deadpans.

Peggy laughs. “You’re McFreakin’ hired, McJimmy.”

The other teams split up in relatively predictable fashion. Alex and Ned pair up, and then invite James into the group, because James and Alex are… friends? Sort of? Sometimes? John isn’t really sure, but there’s also the possibility it’s less of a friendship thing and more of a “hey, you know stuff about science, right?” thing. Francis (who doesn’t appear to be paying much attention), Joe (who looks like he stayed up way too late last night), and Sibyl (who has enough energy for the three of them) team up and claim a corner of the room; Ben, Nathan, and Caleb team up practically before the thought even leaves Dr. Warren’s mouth; Deborah Sampson ends up with Benny and William basically through process of elimination (a handful of people are absent today, so she’s the only one left not on a team).

“Allllright,” Dr. Warren draws out, giving the review game time to load. A blue slide with “Jeopardy! With Dr. Warren” in yellow letters shows up on the projection. “Your categories are…”

Francis’s corner starts a drumroll, and a couple other people join in. Dr. Warren’s review categories are always entertaining.

“Totally Sick, Yo!” Dr. Warren lists off, “which is on diseases and treatments; SEX! Now that I have your attention… which is exactly what it sounds like; YOU WILL GET CHLAMYDIA, AND DIE, which is on STDs; Hooked on a feeling,” he sings that title, or, tries to, as he’s functionally tone deaf, “which is about drugs; and Hodge Podge, which is -”

“Anything else you didn’t know you knew,” everyone chimes in. Anyone who has Warren’s class knows the phrase.

“Okay,” Dr. Warren smiles. “Team names.”

“Waffles!” Caleb calls out immediately as everyone else starts discussing team names.

Ben snorts. “Dude, you _just_ ate. Are you seriously still hungry?”

Caleb grins. “What, waffles isn’t on topic?” And then, at Ben’s questioning look, “Blue waffles?”

“Good lord, are you twelve?” Ben groans, but he’s grinning too, mainly because he doesn’t seem physically capable of being upset at either Caleb or Nathan.

Dr. Warren writes down “waffles” on the board and doesn’t comment on the “blue” bit.

“Can we be The Mitochondria?” McHenry asks.

“The Mitochondria!” Peggy yells out, putting two fists up for fistbumps. “Punch it in guys, it’s glory time.”

“Gotta live up to that name,” John agrees.

He can hear Joe repeatedly asking, “William Tell? Please?” in Francis’s corner before Sybil finally gives up and announces, “Yeah, we’ll be team William Tell,” with a sigh. Joe makes an excited punching motion and Francis rolls his eyes fondly.

James says something to Alex, who raises his eyebrows and chuckles, “Seriously?”

“I’m still going for ‘Jemmy and the Gingers,’” Ned says.

“STDon’ts!” Alex tells Dr. Warren, simultaneous with Debbie calling out, “The Merry Men!”

Once all the names are on the board, Dr. Warren looks around the room and motions for William Tell to choose first. Some whispering among the team ensues, and then Francis announces their pick.

“Hodge Podge for 300.”

Dr. Warren clicks the link for the slide and reads, “What common household medication, if used incorrectly, could cause fatal bleeding?”

The look that briefly flickers over Francis’s face very clearly illustrates that he has no idea. He doesn’t seem to notice Sybil trying to get his attention before he (jokingly) hazards, “Leeches?”

Dr. Warren smiles. “That is incorrect, Francis. Please remember that you may discuss with your team before answering.”

“ _Seriously._ ” Sybil hisses.

“Anyone else?”

Ned’s hand shoots up ever so slightly before McHenry’s and Debbie’s.

“Ibuprofen!” he answers confidently.

“Very good, Ned. That’s 300 points to STDon’ts. Please choose another question.”

After a couple seconds of discussion, Ned chooses YOU WILL GET CHLAMYDIA, AND DIE for 300.

“What can HIV lead to?” Dr. Warren read. “Give the full name, not the acronym.”

“Fuck,” Alex mutters.

James just shrugs helplessly.

“Auto immune… deficiency, uh, something,” Ned hazards. “Hey, ‘something’ starts with an s, that works!”

Peggy’s hand shoot up in the air before Dr. Warren is even done saying, “Not exactly, Ned. Anyone else?”

“Acquired immunodeficiency Syndrome!” Peggy rattles off when Dr. Warren calls on her.

“Very good, Peggy. 300 points to The Mitochondria!”

McHenry offers her a high five, and she obliges.

It’s their turn to choose a question now. They deliberate quickly and finally have John announce, “Hodge Podge for 500.”

And so the game goes. The Mitochondria stays near constantly in the lead, although STDon’t gives them a run for their money. Waffles would be doing well, if its members weren’t so collectively good at distracting each other. And making near constant jokes. Like when Totally Sick, Yo! for 100 is “What is the difference between a viral and bacterial infection?” and Caleb answers, “A bacterial infection only has like, three likes on Youtube,” followed immediately by, “it was a joke, that was a joke! Don’t count it!” (Dr. Warren lets them give a real answer, which they do get right.)

The Merry Men do okay. As a whole, Debbie knows a little about everything, Benny knows a lot about some things and absolutely nothing about other things, and William, like Alex, is very good at getting things confidently wrong. Also, Debbie is very passionate about giving children vaccines.

William Tell is floundering.

And John half hates to admit it, because he tries not to be petty when he’s annoyed with someone and there’s always the possibility that he’s just seeing things, but it really does appear to be generally Francis’s fault. Sure, Sybil knows very little of the material and Health has never been Joe’s strong suit, from what John can tell, but Francis just flat-out isn’t paying attention. What Sybil lacks in knowledge she makes up for in intense desire to win. Joe at least knows what’s going on. Francis, who usually does pretty well in Health, has to be snapped out of staring morosely at a wall no less than five times throughout the game. He keeps putting his hand in his pocket and withdrawing it without actually doing anything; it takes a bit to figure out that he’s fidgeting with his phone.

(For the record, John does not spend the entire game staring at Francis. He just glances over every once in awhile, partially because he’s a little concerned, but mostly because it’s a strange feeling to be mad at Francis after trying so hard not to moon over him for so long.)

(Also, he probably spends more time glancing at Alex. But he _is_ paying attention to the game.)

The Final Jeopardy, as usual, doesn’t have anything to do with Health, so it’s anyone’s guess as to what’s a good amount of points to bet on it.

“Screw it,” McHenry says finally. “All we’ve got. If we go down, we go down in flames.”

Peggy nods solemnly. She extends a hand to McHenry, who shakes it, and then to John. “Gentlemen, it was an honor serving with you.”

John shakes her hand with the most serious face he can muster. “For the mitochondria.”

“For the mitochondria,” Peggy and McHenry repeat, fighting back giggles.

The question turns out to be when Coach Revere’s birthday is. He and Dr. Warren are close friends, and like to poke fun at and make references to each other in their respective classes.

“Oh we’re so screwed,” Peggy realizes resolutely.

“No, wait, I know this one!” McHenry whispers excitedly. “It’s New Year’s day! Last year there was supposed to be a track meeting right after New Year’s, and Coach Revere came in with a hangover. I heard a couple of the track kids joking about whether he’d gotten drunk for his birthday or for the New Year.”

“Jimmy McHenry,” John grins, “you’re my McFreakin’ hero.”

The Merry Men and William Tell both get the answer right, too, by virtue of having kids from track on their team (Debbie and Sybil, respectively). STDon’ts also bet everything, and take a wild stab with, “March… 20th? He seems like an Aries.” Waffles loses half their points with, “February 29th, and he’s actually like, 10 years old.”

The game goes to The Mitochondria by a landslide.

There’s only about seven minutes left in class, so Dr. Warren lets them have free time with a reminder to study for the test. John considers making his way over to Alex, but Alex is busy having a conversation with James. So instead, he hangs out with Peggy and McHenry, enjoying the win and generally chatting. He doesn’t have that many classes with either of them outside of this, especially since Peggy is a Freshman, and only in this class because she could have taught the Freshman and Sophomore health classes. Honestly, she could probably teach half of this one, but Principal George drew the line at a certain point. As for McHenry, he’s in John’s math class, but he sits across the room, and also actually pays attention. Not that John doesn’t pay attention, but he sits right by Sybil, who likes to talk to anyone who even pretends to listen.

So it’s nice getting to talk to them, and wholly unexpected when Ned (previously hovering nervously near Alex and James like he might have to help out the latter at any second) makes his way over and sits down next to John.

“‘Scuse me,” he says casually. “Just butting into the conversation, don’t mind me.”

“Happy to have you,” Peggy greets, not even batting an eye. “We were just discussing cryptids and, relatedly, why Jimmy here is wrong and also no fun.”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” McHenry defends himself, with no real annoyance, “that it’s a little hard to believe that scientists wouldn’t have found proof of the Loch Ness Monster if she was actually there.”

“You don’t believe in it,” Ned notes, “yet you’re sure it’s female.”

“Well yeah, duh.”

“It’s the government,” Peggy insists. “The government is hiding everything.”

“Also,” John points out, “wouldn’t scientists have found proof of farandole, too?”

“You don’t know that!” McHenry yells back.

“What’s a farandole?” Ned asks.

“ _A Wind at the Door_?” McHenry prompts. Ned shakes his head and shrugs.

“It’s the sequel to _A Wrinkle in Time_ ,” Peggy explains. “I’ve read every book in the series at least once and subsequently forgotten the entire plot. Except for _Many Waters_ , that one stuck for some reason.”

Ned raises his eyebrows, and John is struck with how similar he looks to Alex while also, somehow, looking entirely different. “Wait, that’s a series? I thought it was just the one!”

Peggy smirks. “Nope. Whole slew of them. All weird as hell, all amazing.”

Ned looks like he’s about to say something, but then the bell rings and he seems to decide it doesn’t really matter. The group stands to get their stuff and head out the door, all eager to go home and enjoy the weekend.

“Hey John,” Ned calls before John heads out the door.

John turns around. “Yeah?”

Ned hesitates, glances at Alex, then smiles like he’s rethought what he’s going to say and thinks it’s probably for the better. “Have a nice weekend.”

“Thanks,” John replies, a little confused. “You, too.”

* * *

When John gets to the lunch table on Monday, James is the only one there.

John frowns. “I know Tom has a field trip today, but where is everyone else?”

He’s not really expecting James to know, but James surprises him by listing off, “I think Martha has a meeting with a teacher, Francis is eating lunch with Joe today, Millie was only eating with us because she liked Francis, and then because she was dating Francis, and Aaron was at the nurse last I checked, so -”

“Wait, back up. Millie _was_ dating Francis?”

“Yeah. They broke up. Francis didn’t tell you?”

Well, no. Because John still isn’t talking to Francis. And the sentiment seems pretty mutual, since Francis doesn’t seem at all remorseful about being a total ass the other day. Well, maybe a little remorseful. Less remorseful, more cagey and anxious, but John now suspects that may have had less to do with him and more to do with Millie. Or more to do with being a Junior in highschool, because honestly, that in its own right is stressful enough.

“No. When did -”

“So Pat’s a dick, what else is new,” Martha interrupts, coming up behind John and looking around the table. “Um. Where is everyone?”

James sighs. “Tom has a field trip, Francis is eating with Joe, Millie only ate with us for Francis, Aaron is in the nurse’s office because he fell down the stairs and hurt his face but he’s probably fine.”

“Did you know Francis and Millie broke up?” John asks.

Martha shrugs and sits down. “Well, no, but I’m not really surprised. She should have dumped him ages ago, if you ask me. He kind of sucked at communicating with her ever. Not that it’s, like, any of my business.”

John sits down next to Martha, and, scraping his lunch tray against the table as he does so, nearly misses James correct, “Actually, he broke up with her. Last night, apparently.”

“Oh, _please_ tell me he didn’t break up with her over text,” Martha groans.

John frowns. “How do you know all this?”

James shrugs, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, which rarely happens unless he’s just made a particularly awful pun or innuendo, and he’s waiting for the reactions. John suddenly realizes that, given how little James usually talks, he must hear an awful lot. And it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he files all that information away for later, just in case.

“Oh, you know,” James says innocently. “Word travels fast.”

“Hey, did you hear about Francis and Millie?” Aaron gushes, tripping up to the table balancing a lunch tray with one hand and clutching an ice pack to his face with the other. “They -”

“Broke up,” finishes Martha, “yes, we know.” She instinctively holds out a hand to catch the edge of Aaron’s lunch tray, which is slipping out of his grasp, and helps him ease it onto the table.

John watches Aaron awkwardly try and figure out which hand to eat with and which to hold the ice pack with. “Uh, how’s your face?”

Aaron winces; whether or not it’s because of the pain is unclear. “How much did you tell them?” he asks James.

“Just that you fell down the stairs and had to go to Ms. Pitcher’s office.”

“Right. Well, uh.” Aaron shifts the ice pack. “I sort of, um, tripped, because I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going, which sucks, because I was about to ask Theo to the dance, so that kind of… I blew it.”

“It’s not like she’s going to go with anyone else,” Martha offers comfortingly.

“The -? Oh, right!” John remembers. “I’d totally forgotten about the Valentine’s Dance.”

Aaron raises one eyebrow (or possibly both, it’s hard to tell). “Seriously? People are starting to scramble for dates. It’s a little hard to miss.”

“Scrambling? Already?” John’s mind flashes briefly to Alex, and then he remembers he’ll probably be going to this thing with Martha. “Save me a dance, dear girl?” he teases, quirking a half smile.

She smiles back tightly. “Sure thing, honey.” The way she says it is distant and a little pained. She doesn’t give John a chance to ask if she’s okay before she veers the topic off in another direction.

John tunes out sometime in the middle of a long and rambling story that Aaron starts telling about a coconut, which is hilarious at first and poorly thought out towards the end. His eyes wander around the cafeteria, eventually catching sight of Francis. He’s sitting at a table with Joe, some guy John thinks is named Charles, Debbie, and a couple other people that John’s sure he’s seen around, but can’t recognize by name. Charles is animatedly telling a story, with Joe interjecting some points here and there, and everyone else listening with varying levels of interest. Francis smiles every once in awhile, but it’s distracted and distant. Joe keeps nudging him and asking something, probably if he’s alright. Francis nods vaguely a couple of times.

Aaron’s story has dissolved into some kind of bickering with James, and whatever it’s about, Martha seems to be siding with James.

John can’t find Millie in the crowd. He stops looking when he catches a glimpse of bright red hair and sees Alex sitting at a table with Angelica and a few people from history class. Actually, everyone else is sitting; Alex has gotten excited enough about whatever he’s talking about that he’s standing up, and is starting to slowly creep up onto his chair like he’s going to deliver the speech to the whole lunch room. Ned grabs his sleeve and tugs him down. John can see Angelica’s smirk from across the lunchroom.

“John. John! Earth to Turtle Man!”

John jolts. “Uh. Sorry, I - I guess I zoned out there.”

“No kidding,” Aaron agrees. “Your girlfriend’s trying to include you in the conversation?”

John doesn’t miss the way Martha tenses up briefly at “girlfriend.”

“We were talking about stupid nicknames,” she explains teasingly, yet affectionately, with no hint that anything’s wrong.

“Actually we were talking about Thomas,” James corrects. “But nice to know how good you are at picking out information that pertains to John.”

“You can’t pretend an interaction between them wouldn’t be entertaining,” Aaron points out. “I mean, John isn’t all that different from Alex.”

Wait, why are they talking about Alex?

“John has a sense of tact,” James disagrees. “But… you’re also not wrong.”

“Who’s Thomas?” John asks.

“He’s off on an exchange program in France,” Martha explains, “but he goes here, technically. He’s James best friend, and also the one who started calling James ‘Little Jemmy.’”

“Which seems like strange and unusual punishment from a best friend,” James sighs, with another one of those ghosting smiles, “but that’s Thomas for you.”

“Oh!” Aaron remembers. “And this one time -”

He keeps talking as the bell rings over him, but no one (except, possibly, James, who’s sitting closer to him) can hear him.

John throws a “see you guys later” over his shoulder, slings his bag over his shoulder, and makes his way to art. He’s just gotten to the Arts Department hallway when he runs into Millie and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The second she sees him her eyes are shooting daggers, and he feels very guilty and kind of scared, but also has no idea why.

“So, what?” she hisses, stalking up to him. “Francis can work up the balls to cut it off, but you can’t?”

“I - what?” He’s the better part of a foot taller than her, but faced with her (entirely unexplained yet intense) anger, he wants to slink off into a corner and hide.

“It’s the fucking 21st century! You don’t have to - to fucking hide your gay relationship or whatever by, by fucking _lying to your girlfriend_ , you fucking _shit_ -”

“What are you talking about?” John demands.

Millie scoffs. “You know damn well what I’m talking about! You and Francis? Oh don’t play dumb, I know you -”

“Oh my god you think Francis was cheating on you,” John realizes. “With me? Seriously? Did he - did he tell you that or something?” Why would he say that? _What is happening?_

“He didn’t have to. I figured it out -”

“Wrong. You figured it out wrong.” John’s fully aware that laughing is not the thing to do, but the incredulity of the situation is making it harder to resist. “Millie, I promise you I wasn’t - wasn’t sneaking around with Francis behind your back or anything.” Is he seriously having this conversation?

Millie scowls. “But -”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“He - he broke up with me over the phone last night and said we should see other people. Actually, first he said ‘other guys’ and then he started correcting himself really quickly, and then… I hung up on him, so I didn’t really hear the end of that.”

Millie is terrifying when angry, but now that that rage is subsiding, she seems smaller somehow. Hurt and confused.

John bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m - I’m really sorry, Millie. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“No, don’t apologize,” she sniffs, rubbing at the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand. John hadn’t even realized she was crying. “I - I shouldn’t have confronted you like that, that was shitty, and - and stupid, and… it just sucks, you know? You really like someone, and then - then it turns out life's a bitch and nothing makes sense.”

“Yeah.” He wants to track down Francis and demand to know what he thinks he’s doing, why he’s so shitty to people without even realizing it, why he can’t just be less of a child - and then he remembers his conversation with Hester earlier, remembers Martha crying outside the bathroom and Sarah glaring at him. He gets the uncomfortable feeling that he’s not much better than Francis. “Yeah, life’s a bitch.”

“So… Martha’s not a beard?”

“Uh.”

Millie holds up a hand. “Nope. Never mind. I don’t want to know the answer to that. I have to get to choir.” The bell rings to punctuate her statement and she curses under her breath, running off.

John is already ready for this week to be over.


	11. Say Yes to the Stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He does a quick google search for “Shakespearean slang wit” and - okay yup, yup, this entire thing is _definitely_ laden with innuendos. He doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s turning bright red. Sexual content aside, the ending seems more romantic, unless John’s reading way too much into that? Which is likely. Why is this so confusing?
> 
> And the last text. Well. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter is a little confusing towards the beginning, but please, bare with me. All will be clear in time.
> 
> UPDATE: Okay, how??? Did this happen???? I somehow didn't post the last SEVERAL pages of this chapter. But they are up now! The last bit starts after Francis's ":D :D :D + turtles" text, so enjoy and I'm sorry. Consider it a bonus while I shove past writer's block on chapter 12.

“Sir, it’s too risky. You’ll never make it out of there alive.”

Soane loads his ammo carefully and cocks his gun. He sighs and meets Thomas’s eyes. The look is calculated, determined, the level gaze of a soldier willing to do what it takes to carry out a mission. “I never said anything about coming out alive.”

“Let me go,” Thomas protests. “You’ve got a girl waiting for you at home. So’s John. Can you let her know her man’s died on the field? Can you let someone go home and make her cry for you?”

Soane grits his teeth, curses. “It’s an honorable death,” he growls, starting to stand.

A hand on his arm stops him.

“Let me go, sir,” Hester requests, eyes blazing. “I’m smaller than you, harder to hit. And I haven’t got a girl waiting for me at home, same as Hardwick.”

“No!” John hisses.

Soane shushes him, scowls, and shakes his head. “I can’t let you go. You or Jack… it’s brother against brother out there, so to speak. We can’t risk it.”

Hester’s face darkens. “We need more ammo. This mission will use up the last of it. So I say we send out the soldier with the better chance of survival, and whether you like it or not, that’s me. So what’ll it be, sir? Will you let mistrust of your fellow soldiers cloud your vision? Will you go out and die in a useless blaze of glory, leaving us ammoless and Eliza home to weep?”

Soane hesitates, then, finally, hands her the gun.

John tugs her back. “Hester, I can’t let you do this. Let someone else go. I can’t let you die.”

“You aren’t going to,” Hester tells him resolutely. “This is my choice. And you’re going to keep fighting once I’m gone, you hear?”

Hugging on a battlefield is a liability. It obscures your vision, impairs mobility, and, in some cases, makes it harder to blink back tears. John pulls Hester into a quick hug anyway, reason be damned.

“I love you,” he tells her.

“I love you, too,” she whispers. Then she rises carefully and slinks out into no man’s land.

No one says she might live. No one wants to get their hopes up. So instead, they wait in silence, praying to whatever deity seems benevolent that Hester can get the ammo within reach before the other side guns her down.

A minute passes. Two minutes. Five, seven, and then John’s lost count, because it’s too many, and she should be back by now. They’d have heard it if a shot went off, they’d have been able to make out a thud against the stark silence of the night.

“Something’s wrong,” John says finally. “I’m going after her.”

“You damn well aren’t,” Soane says firmly. Then, when John starts to stand anyway, holding his gun to make it look like there’s anything in it, “Soldier, get down. That’s an order.”

“With all due respect, sir,” John responds, “you can shove your order up your ass. That’s my sister.”

Ignoring Soane hissing for him to get back, John creeps around the makeshift trench, keeping low to the ground and staying in the shadows. He hasn’t gotten more than a few steps when he sees Hester.

Hester… and Maria.

“I can hear you,” Maria croons, adjusting the gun aimed at Hester’s temple. “Now, let’s see. Who have we got here? It can’t be Soane, he’s too smart for this.”

John edges closer. Maria’s speaking loud enough for anyone around to hear; she’s confident that she won’t be shot.

“And Hardwick,” Maria continues, “well, if it were Hardwick, I’d be shot by now, and your brave little soldier girl here would be dead.” She grins, not bothering to turn her head in any particular direction. She knows John will hear it in her voice. “A real shame, too. She’s a pretty one… John.”

John hisses a nasty swear under his breath and hears Maria tutt disapprovingly.

“Really now, such strong language? In front of your little sister?”

“Get out John,” Hester cried desperately. “She’s playing with - !” it ends with a gasp as Maria presses the gun against her head.

“Playing, hm?” Maria repeats. “Oh, darling, the games we could play under different circumstances…”

“What do you want?” John demands, tightening his hands around his gun. There’s nothing in it, but a show can’t hurt.

Maria hums, thinking. “A pony,” she decides. “Your sister on her knees, _begging_ for mercy.” (Hester gives an muffled, indignant cry at this.) “And a bullet through you and every one of your fellow soldiers.”

“You know we won’t let you have that.”

Maria twists her lips into a pout. “Damn. I was really hoping for the pony, too.” She sighs loudly and twists herself and Hester around to face the general direction of John’s voice. “Fine. I’ll settle for a flag of surrender.”

“Never,” John spits.

“A flag of surrender,” Maria repeats, “or you can watch me shoot a bullet into your sister’s head.”

“Don’t do it!” Hester yells.

“Oh, Hester,” Maria singsongs, “don’t make me gag you, I might like it.” She leans in close and whispers, just loud enough for John to hear, “You might, too, if your brother lets you survive.”

Hester turns bright red and struggles in vain against Maria’s grip. “This won’t work,” she gasps. “We’ll never let you win.”

“Oh hush now. It’s all up to John.” She raises her voice a bit. “All up to your precious brother.”

“That’s right, bitch,” comes a voice behind her, accompanied by the sound of a gun cocking. “It is up to her brother.”

Maria stiffens. John can’t see who’s holding the gun to the back of her head, but if he had to guess, he’d place his bets on -

“Andre,” Maria snarls. “You dirty traitor. I should have known.”

John, still staying in the shadows, shifts position to get a better visual on Andre.

Andre taps his finger lightly against the trigger. “One wrong move and I shoot.”

“One wrong move,” Maria returns, “and your sister gets it. I knew the risks of this mission, Andre. I’m not afraid of you.”

“No,” Andre says cooly. “You’re very, very afraid. Because you know what I’m capable of. You’re right. You should have known I’d betray you. Because I’m the wildcard, and you’ve just threatened by big sister directly.” He moves the gun to point at the base of her neck, just above the shoulder. “One wrong move,” he repeats slowly, “and I’ll shoot you. But I won’t kill you. Not yet. And I won’t for a very long time if a single one of your bullets so much as grazes Hester. No, I’ll make sure you suffer first.”

Maria laughs a little too loudly. “You think your little speech can scare me?”

“Maybe not,” Andre admits. “But it can distract you.”

He’s barely done with the sentence when a bullet whizzes through the air and hits Maria’s hand, knocking the gun away from her. She hisses out a pained swear, but doesn’t let go of Hester.

“Elias,” she chuckles darkly. “Of course. Can’t have one without the other.”

“Think again,” says Elias, stepping out of the shadows and hitting Maria in the side. She cries out and falls to the ground, taking Hester with her and clutching where the bullet hit.

“Then who - ?”

“That was for my sister, _bitch_!” Mary calls from the roof of what probably used to be a shed.

“That’s not a nice word, Mary, don’t call people that,” Furze calls from behind a pile of old fencing, chairs, and branches.

“Furze,” Maria hisses, “we can address that later, stay in character!”

Furze pops up from behind the barricade. “Game or no, we shouldn’t be teaching her language like that.” He points to Andre. “You shouldn’t really be talking like that, either.”

Andre shoots a NERF bullet in Furze’s general direction. Furze avoids it easily and adjusts his glasses.

“Don’t be a party pooper, Furze!” Soane yells from the other trench.

“Yeah!” Mary agrees, “don’t be a party pooper!”

Hester stands and dusts herself off. “No, he has a point. There is such a thing as taking the game too far.” She looks down at Maria. “I’m just glad she probably didn’t get any of your innuendos.”

Maria grins and winks up at Hester. “Just so long as you got them.”

Hester goes bright red again. Andre and Elias exchange glances.

Thomas stands up. “So are we not playing anymore, or what?”

The Snowfort Crew, as John’s come to think of them, had come around about an hour after his meeting with Phil ended and invited everyone to a NERF gun battle. Henry had only agreed on the merit of being very tired, a state which always made him more susceptible to Mary’s puppy eyes. It was pretty warm out, so it didn’t take long to get everyone out the door, and by the time the chill started setting in a couple hours later, everyone was running on too much adrenaline to notice.

Hester shivers and checks her watch. “Well, it’s nearly Mary’s bedtime, so - well, technically Mary’s, Elias’s, and Andre’s, but we all know the boys never listen to that anyway - so we should probably head home.”

“My bedtime is never!” Mary screeches.

“If you get down and go to bed,” Hester promises, “I’ll let you have something sweet for breakfast.”

Mary considers this, then clambers down from the shed.

“Aw, Hester, do we havta go home?” Andre whines. John kind of feels like whining, too, but figures that if Hester’s being responsible, he should be, too.

He steps out from behind the shed and hands his gun to Thomas. “It was an honor serving with you, Hardwick,” he says. “We should do this again sometime.”

Thomas grins and offers a lazy salute.

“We have to stay and help find all the bullets, first!” Elias pipes up,sweeping a stray hair out of his eyes. And Hester can’t really argue with that, so everyone (including John) gleefully scampers off to find the ammunition. It ends up taking about 15 minutes, with all of them looking.

Henry is pissed when they get home.

“Where have you been?” he demands after shooing everyone but John off to bed. “John, why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

The stupid truth is that John had silenced his phone during a sneak attack and forgot to turn it on afterwards. He knows Henry isn’t going to accept that answer.

He hangs his head, not needing to fake looking guilty. “Sorry, dad.”

Henry runs his hands over his face. “I just… I expect you to be more responsible than this, Jack. If I let you guys go out to play with your friends, I expect you to look out for everyone.”

“I - I did. I just… I should have left my phone on. I - I didn’t think about it.”

“No,” Henry sighs. “You didn’t.”

John feels like shit.

“I hope you will in the future.” Henry hesitates for a second, then reaches out and pats John on the shoulder. “Go to sleep. You have school tomorrow.”

John feels… a little less like shit.

* * *

If war is hell, John thinks, so is school.

The school board is starting to heap on the pressure about colleges, and having to write what feels like two or three essays a week is not at all helped by suddenly having to deal with 1) teachers asking you what you want to do with your life, and 2) Seniors (well, mostly just Tom) gloating over already being done with the whole process.

“You know, I can technically do whatever I want?” he tells John after Lit Mag on Wednesday. “Like, I’m already accepted into another school. This one can’t touch me. I could go to Principal George’s office and call him an asshat to his face, and I’d still be golden.”

John fiddles with the pen in his pocket, trying to find a flaw in the reasoning. “I mean, couldn’t they hold you back?”

“Won’t stop me from going to college.”

“Wouldn’t it? They might kick you out if they saw you failed your Senior year.”

Tom purses his lips, thinking. “Okay, truth be told, I have no idea if they can do that or not. It’s pretty much all they have over my head by now.”

John looks over at Tom and tries to imagine him as a college student. It’s not like he’ll change drastically, of course, he’ll still have the same just-assume-I’m-already-an-expert-on-the-topic eyes and smug grin, and John doubts the slicked-back brown hair will change much, but it’s still weird to think about. There’s this gap in his head between high school and college that makes the change seem unreal.

“Where _are_ you going, anyway?” he asks.

Tom takes his schedule out of his pocket and glances over it idly. “Brown,” he says, like he’s discussing the weather.

John’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “What, seriously? You got into an ivy league school? That’s awesome!”

Tom shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t be too surprised if I saw you there in a couple years.”

The comment sounds much less realistic next class period when John is puzzling over a worksheet, trying to figure out what kind of math he’s even supposed to be learning right now.

He manages to survive until the end of math and all the way through science, only to be trapped with his dad in a car on the way home.

“So I heard the school’s having you look at colleges?” Henry asks.

John nods. He doesn’t really want to talk about this, because his head is already swimming with application information and testing and GPAs on a near-constant basis as it is, and he just wants to take a nap and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a little bit.

Henry taps his fingers against the wheel. “You still looking at medical school?”

“Yeah.”

John’s not sure why, but Henry seems dead set on him growing up to be a lawyer one day. It’s not even like it’s one of those situations where he’s forcing opportunities he wanted as a kid onto John, because Henry had just as much opportunity to go to law school as John, he just chose to go to business school, which is serving him well. And it’s not even like being a lawyer is more respectable than a doctor. Honestly, John doesn’t get it.

But on some innate level, he also wants Henry to be proud of him, so… there’s that.

“Whatever works for you, I suppose,” Henry says in a tone of voice that very clearly states that he’ll support John if he becomes a doctor, but he’ll be much less happy to help pay off college tuition.

John isn’t in the mood for this argument. He takes out his phone to do something other than continue the conversation, only to realize that it’s dead. Great.

Henry turns on the radio and spends the rest of the car ride listening to some channel claiming to play “oldies” and then playing songs that John remembers from when he was little. He doesn’t push the conversation.

Once he gets home, John makes himself do at least half of his homework before plugging his phone in to charge. Apparently the school musical (John is pretty sure it was Mary Poppins, but the theatre kids never seem to stop quoting shows from previous years, so it’s hard to tell) had tech week last week and teachers were going a little easier on the workload. This is no longer the case.

When he’s finally plowed through his math problems, a short essay for English, and some history notes, he plugs in his phone to find several paragraph’s worth of missed texts from Alex.

 **[Text from: HAM]** I have been told, on several occasions, that I am perhaps a little elusive when it comes to divulging how I truly feel about a person. So I will be frank, here, in saying that I care about you, Laurens. I consider us friends, close friends, even, perhaps more, despite the short length of time we have known each other. A nasty trick, Laurens, as I do not generally like people so quickly, but a trick I will have to forgive, as we are generally indulgent to those we are fond of.  
**[Text from: HAM]** I am forced to wonder, though, if this partiality is reciprocated. I must confess I had no idea of your relationship with Martha, and must wonder why you never saw fit to mention it. But if that is how it will be, very well. I insist you offer some assistance in helping me find a suitable girlfriend as well. She must be pretty (I stress a good figure here), sensible (decently educated, although certain intelligence will have to go beyond the capabilities of this school), sweet and innocent (I admit some romantic notions on the topic of dating), and, on occasion, able and willing to pay for dates. Finding such a girl shouldn’t be too difficult, nor should be convincing her, but if you run into issues, it may be necessary to give some more details on the prospective lover: my /size/, build, quality of mind and /body/, achievments, expectations, etc. In drawing such a picture, I hope you will be kind. Do justice to the length of my nose and don’t forget that I  
**[Text from: HAM]** Oh crap, I didn’t mean to hit send yet.  
**[Text from: HAM]** Nevermind. This entire thing was pretty ridiculous, anyway. I’m not entirely sure why I sent it. Do I want a girlfriend? No. I’m busy enough as it is. And even if I did, it would be ridiculous to send someone out to find one for me when I’m fully capable of flirting myself (as I’m sure you well know). Perhaps I meant to show my wit? Well, I failed in that regard, especially if we take into account Shakespearean slang. No, Laurens, I was only joking, and in doing so have succeeded in affirming my feelings. It was, after all, more or less an excuse to text you.  
**[Text from: HAM]** No but in all seriousness, when were you going to tell me about Martha?

John… has no idea what to make of this.

He blinks at his phone for a solid minute before he even starts contemplating a response. The best approach, he figures, is to just go through and figure out a little bit at a time.

Okay, so, Alex considers them friends. More than friends? Good friends? Further than that? He’d said “close friend, even, perhaps more,” but John has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. Also, “fond of”? _How is he supposed to take this?_

He doesn’t even bother with the first half of the second paragraph, since he’s pretty sure it’s just Alex teasing him (except for the bit about Martha, but, well, he’ll think about that once he’s done processing everything else). Actually, the entire paragraph seems to be teasing him, but certain parts of the second half keep jumping out at him. Like how Alex stressed “size” and “body.” John is nearly certain those were innuendos. And how was the paragraph going to end? Don’t forget _what_? Judging by the way the paragraph was going, there’s a good chance it was going to be a dirty joke of some kind, but John has no way of knowing and he’s _really_ curious now.

If Alex is too busy for a girlfriend, is he too busy for a boyfriend?

Not that John cares or anything.

He does a quick google search for “Shakespearean slang wit” and - okay yup, yup, this entire thing is _definitely_ laden with innuendos. He doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s turning bright red. Sexual content aside, the ending seems more romantic, unless John’s reading way too much into that? Which is likely. Why is this so confusing?

And the last text. Well. Fuck.

 **[Text to: HAM]** In all honesty, I thought you already knew about Martha. I may not have mentioned it explicitly, but it isn’t exactly a secret. Regardless, I probably should have mentioned something about a girlfriend when it seemed like you were flirting with me. (Assuming, of course, that that was flirting and not just you being friendly and me taking it the wrong way.) I didn’t think to mention it mainly because Martha and I aren’t actually dating; we’re just keeping up the outward appearance so that her parents stop worrying about her flirting with people, and my dad doesn’t find out that I’m gay.  
**[Text to: HAM]** I’m really sorry about the lack of communication here.

John chews on the inside of his cheek, contemplating sending more. He’d already read over and edited the text repeatedly before sending it, and between that and practically performing a literary analysis on Alex’s text, he’s not sure how much longer he can treat texting like a freaking English class.

He’s still waffling when a typing bubble pops up on the screen, disappears, reappears, and dances in and out of existence a few times.

 **[Text from: HAM]** Ah, that explains it. I figured there had to be a reasonable explanation. Not that this necessarily counts high on the list of reasonable things, but it’s not the worst explanation.

And then, a second or so later,

 **[Text from: HAM]** (And yes, Laurens, I was definitely flirting with you. ;))  
**[Text from: HAM]** Wow, no, that looks weird. How do you use emojis in parenthesis? There has to be a better way that doesn’t make it look like the winky face has a double chin. Why must using emojis within the confines of grammar and punctuation be so difficult?

John smiles. Only Alex could somehow be a smooth flirt in one text and an utter geek in the next.

 **[Text to: HAM]** Might I ask, if you didn’t already know about Martha, how did you find out?

 **[Text from: HAM]** Oh, James told me.

John’s about to reply when he hears a knock at his door.

“Jack?” Hester calls. “Are you eating tonight? Like at all? Food is a thing.”

John’s stomach grumbles in agreement. Come to think of it, he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch. He should probably go find himself dinner.

“Yeah, will do. Thanks.”

 **[Text to: HAM]** I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Alex. My sister just reminded me that I haven’t had dinner yet.  
**[Text to: HAM]** Goodnight!

 **[Text from: HAM]** Goodnight, Laurens. I have some essays I need to write, so I think I’ll go work on them for a while. Oh, and homework, too.

Homework, too. Because the essays were apparently different from assignments. John’s still stifling a grin at that when he leaves his room, pocketing his phone. Hester raises an eyebrow and smirks.

“Alex?” she asks innocently.

“Shut up,” John grumbles, still grinning.

When John checks his phone after finishing up microwaved leftovers, he discovers that he’d accidentally left his phone on silent again and that he got no less than three texts in the fifteen minutes it took to eat.

 **[Text from: HAM]** {Figured it out. The answer is either brackets or curly braces. :)}

 **[Text from: Dear Girl]** i have dance rehersal tonite but just wanted toask before i forget. u free during lunch tomorrow? need to talk about sumthing

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** hey

He talks himself out of replying to the first one, since he’s already said goodnight, and Alex has work to do. As for the next one:

 **[Text to: Dear Girl]** Yeah, of course. Everything okay?

After a couple minutes without a response, he realizes she probably went to dance. Which just leaves one more message.

John purses his lips and drums his fingers against his phone. He doesn’t feel like talking to Francis right now. Truth be told, he’s still a little pissed at Francis, and he hasn’t opened the message yet, so it won’t read “read,” so… he puts his phone down and tells himself he’ll answer later.

It’s a lie and he knows it.

* * *

Martha waits for John by the entrance to the cafeteria. She’s fidgeting nervously with her phone when John finds her.

“Hey,” she says, a little too brightly, not meeting his eye.

“Hi,” he returns. “Are, uh… are you okay?”

Martha takes a deep breath, shoves her phone into her pocket, and runs a hand self-consciously through her hair. “Can we - can we go somewhere else to talk? Like, I don’t know, a classroom. Or something.”

“Uh, yeah,” John says, mentally running through every possible way this conversation could go. “No problem.”

It only takes a couple tries to find an unlocked classroom that no one’s using, which is more than enough time for John to move on from likely issues - Martha is having trouble with a teacher and needs a friend to talk to, maybe even that John is about to have a similar conversation to the one he had with Francis in the locker rooms - to less likely issues - Martha had an unsettling dream and is worried about what it says about her as a person, John has fucked up big time for reasons he has failed to notice and Martha is breaking the news to him, Martha is moving away - to ridiculous and (probably) impossible scenarios - Martha was a secret agent the whole time sent to assassinate John and she’s about to save his life, Martha is secretly a space alien, _John_ is secretly a space alien.

The general takeaway is that John should probably be getting more sleep.

His attention drifts back to real-life Martha as she takes another deep breath and leans against the wall. “So… I need to, um, I - _fuck_ I don’t know how to say this.” She tugs at her hair. “Okay. We need to break up.”

And somehow, John didn’t see this coming, but it’s so much more likely than anything else that had been running through his sleep-deprived brain that he just says, “Okay.”

“Oh my god you’re not even asking why,” Martha laughs, although really, it’s a little too desperate and crazed to count as a laugh. “You’re not even-” she runs her hands over her face, “fuck, what even _is_ today?”

She hasn’t fully stopped the hysterical laughter, and John is more than a little worried.

“Do - do you want me to ask?” he hazards.

Martha sinks to the floor, head still in her hands. John can’t tell if she’s still laughing. He doesn't think so.

“I mean,” she says, the sound muffled through her hands and a little choked, “I don’t know. I had a whole thing planned, but like, it’s gone to shit anyway, so…” She sighs, lowers her hands, but still doesn’t look at John. “I just - I can’t do this anymore.”

John, feeling awkward standing, sits down on a desk. “That’s understandable. It’s a lot of lying, and-”

“ _No_ , John, that’s not it.” She takes another deep breath as if steeling herself for something. “How did this all start?”

She asks it like she knows the answer and she wants John to say it. He wants to say ‘you showed up at my house without warning and made me deal with it,’ but that feels like the wrong answer. “You… danced with me at the New Year’s party?” he guesses.

“Yeah,” Martha agrees. “Yeah, I did. ‘Cause I thought you were cute, and then I kept talking to you because I _liked_ you.”

“Oh.” He says it again as it sinks in. “ _Oh._ But, uh, then you found out I was gay. _Am_ , uh…” he tails off when he sees Martha nodding jerkily.

“Which didn’t,” she finishes. “Change. Shit.”

“Oh,” John says for the third time, and then everything falls into place. Martha crying outside the bathroom, Sarah blaming him for whatever it was, every little touch and happy glance Martha has given him for the past month: it all suddenly makes sense. “ _Shit_.”

His facial expression must be something to behold, or maybe the absurdity of the situation is still getting to Martha, because she starts snickering.

“I feel like such a jerk,” John groans. “Martha, I am so sorry.”

“You’re apologizing for me liking you,” Martha giggles. “This is so fucking surreal.”

“No,” John corrects, “I’m apologizing for being an oblivious asshole. Oh my god, the shit you’ve put up with -”

“You mean like you gushing about Gingersnap?” Martha supplies. She’s grinning up at him now, teasing, only a faint red rim around her eyes serving as any indication that she was upset.

John feels a blush creep up his neck. “I - I wasn’t - I - yeah.” He sighs, but it ends in a laugh. “Yeah, like that.”

Martha laughs again, and it sounds genuine. If John couldn’t see the hint of red around her eyes and the way she’s still huddled in on herself on the floor, he wouldn’t have a clue anything was wrong. Then again, judging by recent events, he might not anyway. He wants to comfort her somehow, but he knows he’s probably not the best person for the job.

There’s an awkward lull as Martha’s laugh trails off and John stays on the desk, staring at his hands.

“Thank god for waterproof eyeliner,” Martha mutters, gently dabbing at the corner of her eyes with the pad of her finger. The makeup, John now notices, is a little smudged, but mostly seems fine.

“So what do we tell people?” John blurts out.

“Um, nothing?” Martha says. “Like, I dunno, I guess we mention we broke up, but - oh, you mean, like, _why_ we broke up.”

“Yeah.” John scratches the back of his neck. “I, uh, don't exactly have much experience here.”

Martha barks out another laugh. “Ha! I should hope not.” She chews on her lip, thinking. “Um… I guess we just say it wasn’t working out? Like, we decided we were better off friends.”

“Are you still okay being friends?” John stops himself from asking. “Are you still going to eat lunch with us?” he asks instead.

Martha shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes. Think I’m gonna pull a Francis and start eating with other friends, though. Um, speaking of Francis,” Martha stretches out one leg, unfolding from her hunched position, and trains a careful expression on John, “what’s up with you two?”

John suddenly remembers the unanswered “hey” waiting on his phone and decides to go back to pretending to get back to it later. “What do you mean?” He’s aiming for casual, but it comes out defensive.

One of Martha’s eyebrows quirks almost imperceptibly upward. “He passed me on his way to lunch and asked what I was waiting for,” she explains. “I watched him have, like, five different reactions simultaneously when I said it was you, and then he was all like, ‘well I haven't seen him,’ and I was like, ‘okay cool, dude, didn’t ask,’ and then he got all awkward and left.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, sounds like Francis.”

Martha gives him a distinctly unimpressed look. “Nope. You’re not getting out of an explanation that easy, Jackie.”

“It’s nothing,” John insists.

“I’m gonna make up an answer if you don’t give me one.”

“Seriously, Martha.”

“Ooh, maybe Millie was right! Maybe you guys _were_ having an illicit affair! I mean, she didn’t say it in those exact words, but -”

“Martha.”

“And now Francis is all bummed because you left him to be with Alex, and he doesn’t know how to break the news that he’s preg-”

“We just had an argument, okay?” John cuts her off. “We had an argument about - about some things, and he was kind of a dick about it. So yeah, I’m pissed, but it’s not a big deal.”

Martha raises her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll back off.”

“Thanks.”

Martha’s stomach grumbles audibly. John suddenly realizes that he still hasn’t had lunch. Martha seems to realize the same thing.

“We should go buy lunch before the period ends,” she suggests.

“Yeah,” John agrees. “We probably should.”

As they make their way out the door into the hallway, John can’t help but think that maybe, in another life, this could have been something good.

* * *

James isn’t surprised by the breakup in the slightest. If Tom has any strong emotions on the matter, he doesn’t express anything past, “Oh darn, that sucks you guys.” Aaron seems genuinely surprised and a little upset, but Aaron seems surprised by a lot of things.

Martha, for her part, doesn’t eat at the table for another week. Tom finally gets sick of the small lunch group on Tuesday.

The usual group these days is John, Tom, Francis, James, and Aaron, with Francis acting as a sporadic variable that might eat lunch with them or might not, depending on… factors that probably exist but are unclear. Today, he’d passed by the table, mumbled a general hello to John, then a slightly less mumbled hello to the table as a whole, and then slunk off to eat with Joe. James was out sick. Aaron is trying to tell John and Tom how he asked Theo out to the Valentine’s Day dance, but loses track of the story halfway through and is now recounting a strange series of text messages between the two of them that would probably be much easier to follow if he’d provided any context.

Tom finally snaps.

“Do we need to eat lunch at this table? Did someone make a secret pact with the devil here or something, and now we’re all stuck here or horrible doom befalls us?”

“I -” Aaron lowers his phone and looks up, annoyed at being interrupted, “Tom, I was in the middle of a sentence.”

“Yes, but I don’t really need to hear about how Theo named _another_ one of her tiny, yappy-looking dogs Louisa, because this is exactly the sort of horrible doom a deal with the devil should have prevented.”

Aaron tries to look hurt, but John gets the impression even he wasn’t listening to himself for the past few minutes.

“Do you have a solution?” John asks, “or do you just want to complain?”

“Complaining is fun, not gonna deny that,” Tom notes, starting to gather everything up and slinging on his backpack, “but I do actually have a solution.”

He nods across the lunchroom, and John and Aaron turn to see where he’s looking. John can’t be sure, but he thinks the nod is directed at Alex’s table, which looks pretty full.

“It doesn’t really look like they have any room,” Aaron notes, not sounding terribly excited about the idea.

“Nonsense,” Tom insists. “That’s what extra chairs are for.”

Before either of them can protest, Tom is heading off across the lunchroom and assuming they’ll grab their stuff and follow, which they do. Aaron nearly spills half his lunch tray getting up, but John manages to help him catch it just in time, since, not having to carry a lunch tray (he wasn’t really hungry, so he’s been done eating for a little while now), he had an extra hand.

John’s not sure what it says about him that he only noticed Alex, and sometimes Angelica, on the various occasions when he’d looked over at this table (not that it was, like, _that_ often, he just - never mind). Ben, Nathan, Caleb, Betsey, and Cat apparently also eat here, which John probably should have noticed. The remaining seats are all occupied by a couple people John recognizes from his history class, most of them listening to Cat animatedly telling some story with a lot of hand gestures (John thinks he hears the word “velociraptor” followed by what appears to be an impression of one). Cat breaks off mid-sentence when they see John and grins.

“Yo, Jackie!” they call. “Just in time, I’m getting to the good part, pull up a chair!”

Some scrambling ensues, and the next thing John knows, he’s squished in between Alex and Angelica and listening to the tail end of a story about Jurassic Park.

“And some dude looks at the video and just goes, ‘Yo that’s a chicken!’” Cat enthuses. “And it totally was. Made a breakthrough in dinosaur knowledge, I shit you not. Hey dude-whose-name-I-don’t-know, you gonna sit down, or keep lurking?”

John hadn’t noticed that Tom had somehow avoided a chair in the frenzy, but sure enough, he’s still standing somewhere behind John holding his lunch tray and sporting a lazy grin.

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve gotta go find Dolley and ask her to the Valentine’s Day dance. Also, Tom, by the way.”

“Hi Tom. I’m Cat. Good luck.”

“The dance is in less than a week,” Angelica reminds him. “You shouldn’t have waited until the last minute.” John feels Alex stiffen beside him.

“One,” Tom lists, “it’s not the last minute until the dance is literally already happening.” He turns to start walking away, and throws the second half of the comment over his shoulder. “Two, I didn’t wait, I’ve asked her plenty of times. She just hasn’t said yes yet.”

Angelica rolls her eyes and lets out a soft laugh.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me.” Betsey reaches out an arm to poke Nathan across the table. “Ditch the dance with me and watch Netflix?”

Nathan doesn’t even look up from the math homework he’s been working on. “Sure.”

“What!” Caleb cries. “Oh, come on Nate, now who am I gonna go with?”

Cat and the handful of guys at the end of the table start talking again, easing the table back into a steady hum of chatter.

“Go with Ben and stop making me your rebound guy,” Nathan replies, so quickly that John’s sure they’ve had this conversation before.

“He won’t go with me!” Caleb pouts.

“I mean,” Ben offers, “you could ask.”

“Yeah, but we all know you’re holding out for Jack.”

Ben scowls as Nathan snorts, failing to hold back a laugh.

“Anyone else planning on asking someone right here, right now?” Angelica asks a little too loudly. John almost misses Alex shooting her a glare.

“No,” Alex says firmly.

Angelica puts up her hands in mock surrender. “Jeez, who said I was talking to you? John, are you going with anyone?”

John shakes his head. “Uh, Martha and I just broke up, so…”

Alex sits up a little bit from his slumped position. “You did?”

“Uh. Yeah.” And then he follows it up with “So I don’t really have any plans,” instead of “So I’m open if, oh I don’t know, you wanted to go together or something,” even though that annoying part of his brain that won’t seem to shut up is itching to go with that second option.

He knows he’s going to have to do _something_ the night of the dance, because when Henry had caught wind of it and asked if he was going with Martha, he’d panicked and said he was. However weird the whole “fake dating” thing might have felt, John’s not going to deny that it effectively kept Henry from suspecting anything - well, as far as he knows, anyway.

“Well,” Angelica suggests, bringing him back to the present, “maybe _somebody_ will ask you.” She’s looking pointedly across John, instead of directly at him, which only gets more confusing when John realizes that she’s looking at Alex, who’s shooting equally pointed (but more panicked and/or angry) looks back.

“Uh,” says John, for lack of anything better to say.

“Okay, so invite your boyfriend, too!” The voice comes from across the lunchroom, but it’s unmistakably Toms’s. John, Angelica, and Alex, probably acting on some primal urge to avoid their own awkward conversation, turn to see the source of the commotion.

Tom is a table or so away, sitting backwards on a chair facing Dolley. Sibyl, sitting across the table from them, looks like she’s a second away from either making popcorn or jotting down notes. John can’t hear Dolley’s response, but he can read lips well enough to parse out “North Carolina” as she raises an eyebrow.

The lunchroom as a whole doesn’t deem them interesting enough to stop in its tracks, so any further conversation gets swallowed by the ebb and flow of white noise chatter.

“You know what,” Ben says suddenly, edging John’s attention back to the table, “who the hell says I’m holding out for Jack?”

“Wait, are we still talking about this?” Caleb asks around a mouthful of tuna fish.

“No,” Ben snaps. “Yes. Maybe.”

“Um.” Caleb exchanges a curious glance with Nathan. “Anything you wanna tell us, Benny-Boy?”

“It’s just…” Ben shifts awkwardly, furrowing his brow. “Jack’s cute and all, I mean, that’s common knowledge, but I’m not, like, in love with him or something. And you could just - I mean, if you - I kinda - ugh, whatever.” He slides out of his chair, stalking out of the lunchroom and muttering something about needing the bathroom.

“I’m… genuinely not sure what just happened,” Caleb admits.

“Maybe you should go talk to him?” Nathan suggests.

“What, right now?”

“No, I mean, eventually. Soon.”

“Yes,” Angelica echoes. “Talk to him soon.”

She’s back to giving Alex pointed looks. John really wishes he knew what was going on.

* * *

John has more homework to do than he knows how to deal with. This is maybe why, by the time the text comes, he’s been staring at his computer screen for an hour with nothing staring back but a half-formed thesis on continental shifts. He needs to get his act together.

The fact that he hasn’t gotten his act together is probably why, when the text comes, he absentmindedly opens it without first checking who sent it, and then feels an obligation to reply with _something_ because now it’s going to say “read” and he doesn’t want to look like a jerk.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** hey  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** i dont know if u got like any of the messeges i sent  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** or maybe ur just ignoring me  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** are u mad at me?  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** i meen i probably deserve it  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** but then u were talking about comunication or whatever  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** so this is me  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** trying 2 comunicate  
**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** hello?

Ah. He might have been ignoring Francis’s texts a bit longer than intended.

He tosses the phone back and forth, trying to come up with an answer. Is he still mad? He definitely was, but… not so much anymore. Part of him still wants to be annoyed with Francis on principle, but for one thing, it’s not like he needs Francis’s approval to do whatever he wants with his life, and for another, Francis’s overly loud comment on John having a beard is quickly becoming a moot point. And, well, it seems like Francis feels genuinely guilty. So… 

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** I’m not mad.

He stares at his phone for a good five minutes before deciding he should just get back to his essay and deal with this later. Which he does. For maybe fifteen minutes. And then he gets restless, glances over at his closet, and notices that the stress ball Tuke gave him is still in there, peeking out from under a pile of clothes. And then he spends five minutes playing with it, until his phone buzzes again.

 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** :D :D :D :D

John’s not sure what the turtle emojis have anything to do with this, but they make him crack a small, involuntary smile.

That was probably the point.

John doesn’t text him back a reply, but Francis offers a nod and a shy smile when they pass in between classes the next day, so that’s probably a good sign.

There a couple pieces to read for Lit Mag that day, but it’s mostly either badly written poems or essays and recipes and whatnot sent in by people who don’t seem to know what the school’s literary magazine is. Only two of them make it in.

The first is George Crabbe’s piece, “Assurance,” which gets some confused expressions, but mostly only positive feedback.

“Oh, I get it,” Sarah says at one point. “It’s an ‘I’m emotionally unstable but don’t worry about it’ piece.”

“Oh, I have one of those,” Alex says.

“I think most poets do,” Phil agrees. “I know I’ve written one.”

“But like… are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Joel asks George after the piece gets accepted.

George just rolls his eyes.

The other piece that gets in is Sarah’s piece, “The Story of Life,” which gets a warm response and an accusation from Jack of being a Supernatural fan piece, which Sarah doesn’t deny.

Alex catches John before he leaves.

“Laurens! Hey, um, hi, can I talk to you about - I mean, can I ask you something?” he rushes. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, and he’s misjudged how far to stand from John, so he has to step back to avoid craning his neck to try and make eye contact. “It’s not bad, I think, don’t worry.”

“Uh,” says John. “Sure?”

The others leave around them, absorbed in their own conversations and throwing “see you later”s over their shoulders as they go.

“Leave the door open when you leave,” Mr. Cowper requests as he leaves.

“Sure thing, Mr. Cowper,” Alex calls back. Then, to John, “So, you, er, you have any plans Friday? I mean, are you going to the dance?”

He’s making a conscious effort to slow down, but he’s still talking quickly enough that he can belatedly tack on “With anyone?” before John even processes a response.

“Uh, no,” John answers. “I mean yes, yeah, I’m - I’m going to the dance, I think, I mean I could, but, uh, no, I’m not going with anyone.”

“You’re not?” Alex brightens and starts fidgeting with the end of his ponytail. “Okay, right, so um, are you… that is, would you - I’m - you’re - you _are_ \- I’m gonna, I’m gonna start over…” Alex trails off and takes a deep breath, then hesitates like he still hasn’t quite thought out what he wants to say. John mentally fills in the pause with buzzing questions. Mainly: _what is happening?_ He’s getting the distinct impression that he should have already pieced it together, but confusion got there before any sort of reasoning did.

“Does… this have anything to do with, uh,” he thinks better of it, then realizes he’s halfway through the question and should probably finish anyway, “with whatever Angelica was, uh, doing? At lunch yesterday?”

He’s not fully confident that Alex will understand what he means, but Alex - well, he doesn’t exactly blush, but he does widen his eyes and start self-consciously adjusting his ponytail.

“Um, yeah.” Alex rolls his eyes up to the ceiling like maybe he’ll find cue cards up there. “So, um, I know I said I was ‘perfectly capable of flirting for myself,’ or something along those lines, but, apparently I’m an awkward mess?” He laughs with a sort of panicked self-deprecation that’s simultaneously familiar and entirely alien. John doesn’t have much time to think about it before Alex finally makes eye contact. “So I’m going to just, just plow ahead and ask.”

The pieces finally fall together. John’s face gets a head start on what he assumes is a slew of entertaining (read: embarrassing) reactions just as Alex gets out, “Will you go to the dance with me?”

“Yes!” John winces when it comes out much more excited than it probably should be.

“I mean because I just - wait really?” John can practically see the gears in Alex’s brain try and maneuver a quick shift in the other direction, his face catching up accordingly as it breaks into a huge (adorable, amazing, lots of good adjectives right there) grin that John is happily mirroring.

“Yeah I -” he coughs, attempting to cover up the fact that his treacherous brain is still on over-excited-puppy-dog mode, realizes belatedly that it’ll just make him look like he was trying too hard to be cool or something if he goes through with this plan, coughs again, and narrowly avoids an awkward coughing fit before managing to say “That sounds great” in a passably normal tone of voice.

It’s Alex’s smile. It really is. It’s doing things to his brain that completely uproot any pretense at functioning. And it’s somehow gotten bigger and brighter, and John cannot possibly survive this situation, he’s too gay for this, holy shit, red alert, what does he even _do?_

He almost doesn’t notice the bell ringing.

“I’ll, okay, I’ll text you and, er, figure out plans,” Alex offers, bouncing on his feet again and still grinning.

“Yup,” John says.

Smooth. Real smooth.


	12. Of Soap Operas and Slow Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John blinks, wondering how he ended up feeling quite this lost. It’s a little past the level of confusion one generally prepares for when going to school dances, but then again, only a little. “What just happened?”
> 
> “A rising fashionisto just stole your date to spy on some teachers for reasons he’ll probably claim are justice, and I did nothing to stop any of it because we all need a little chaos in our lives. By the way, I’m Ricky Meade. Nice to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness gracious, I'm so sorry for the long wait. I've been held up intermittently by the Great Hunt for Colleges, schoolwork, and writer's block. I can't promise the next chapter will be any more timely, but I'll do my best.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The dance starts at 7:00 PM. Taking into account the amount of time it takes to get from his house to the school, John has about 2 hours to do some homework, take a shower, get dressed, eat, and, if he’s scheduling realistically, probably have some sort of emotional crisis. Not necessarily in that order.

He stares up at the ceiling, wondering if it would take more energy to heave himself out of bed and get his math textbook or to have the emotional crisis now and get it over with. The faint sound of “Purple Eyes” playing from across the room informs him that he won’t be doing either of those things immediately.

**[Text from: HAM]** Hey, this is Ned on Alex’s phone. I don't have your number and he’s busy.  
 **[Text from: HAM]** Peggy and Angelica live a little farther away than we thought, so I’ll be swinging by your house at 6:30.  
 **[Text from: HAM]** It’s not that much sooner than we were going to pick you up originally, but I thought you’d want to kno.

**[Text to: HAM]** Okay. Thanks

After a lot of planning, it had been decided that the best and easiest way to get John to the dance without Henry getting suspicious about the total lack of Martha was to orchestrate a carpool. Ned hadn’t planned on going to the dance unless he had someone to go with, so he and Peggy are going as friends, meaning Ned is now in charge of driving her, Angelica, Alex, John, and himself to the dance.

John really needs to get his math homework done _now_ , or it’s not happening ever.

After about 30 minutes of assorted math problems, science equations, and some pretense of knowing how to write coherent body paragraphs, John calls it quits and takes an inadvertent nap. He wakes up with even more anxiety curling through his stomach, which is bullshit, because aren’t naps supposed to be refreshing? Seriously, he thinks grumpily at the universe, this was supposed to be a break from the universe and all its shit, and that shit includes the fear that he’s going to fail all of his classes, or that Henry is somehow going to find out he’s going to the dance with a guy, or any other number of things that are going to go wrong, because they probably will, knowing his luck -

Okay. Stop. Breathe.

John closes his eyes and remembers an exercise that Dr. Phil gave him for when he started feeling anxious. Something to ground him. He’s supposed to find 5 things he can see, 4 things he can feel, 3 things he can hear, 2 things he can smell, and 1 thing he can taste. He decides to do it backwards so he can avoid opening his eyes for a little longer.

Taste: unless he wants to randomly lick something, which feels unsanitary, all he can taste is the inside of his own mouth. He needs to brush his teeth.

Smell: his sheets, if he rolls over and presses his nose to his bed, which isn’t entirely unpleasant since, thankfully, he’s washed his sheets in the recent past. His room smells like dust, old paint, and turtle. Thanks, Flos.

Hear: the heating unit rattling away in a valiant effort to fend off the February chill. Electronic sound effects coming from the living room, where Andre and Elias are playing video games. Someone - probably Hester - starting up the stove in the kitchen. Wait, hang on, what time is it?

Feel: his eyes snapping open in a sudden effort to orient himself to his surroundings. The sheets tangling around his leg as he trips out of bed, and the cold floor slapping against his feet as he nearly falls on his face (talk about grounding). His face, which he now remembers he forgot to shave this morning.

See: the clock, which reads 6:11 PM, and then his towel, the floor, the doors of both his room and the bathroom, and the shower as he ditches any attempt to finish this exercise properly in favor of getting ready right the fuck now because he did _not_ mean to wait until the last minute, shit shit _shit_.

The shower is too cold, but he’s only in for maybe 2 minutes so it doesn’t really matter.

It’s not until he’s dashing back into his room that he realizes he has no idea what he’s supposed to wear to this thing. This is, if he recalls correctly, a “semi-formal” event, but since he doesn’t concretely know what that means, it’s not a very helpful description. A quick Google search turns up a bunch of male models in everything from jeans to tuxedos, which is equally unhelpful.

“Fantastic,” he mutters.

It takes longer than it should to decide he doesn’t have time to worry about this and throw on a striped blue dress shirt and the first dress pants he finds, by which point it’s 6:21 PM and he has about 9 minutes to eat before Ned and Alex get here.

There’s a plate of scrambled eggs waiting for him on the kitchen table. Hester sits in the next seat over, eating her own serving.

“I heard you crashing around in a panic,” she explains calmly, “and I don’t trust you to feed yourself in a pinch, so.”

“You’re a saint,” John breathes, grabbing a fork and sinking into his chair.

“Normally, I’d just agree on the merit of being an awesome sister.” She taps her hand against the table, and John takes a break from shoveling eggs into his face to notice that she’s holding a box. “But this time, I’d like to cash that in for a favor.”

“Okay. What favor?”

Hester slides the box in his direction. “Can, uh… give this to Maria,” she explains, carefully looking at the box, her plate, and basically anywhere except for John. “Just, uh, tell her I found it in a thrift shop and thought of her. She - she mentioned something about - whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

John swallows a mouthful of egg, pockets the box, and gives Hester a smile. “Sure. No problem.”

Hester lets out a breath. “Thanks, Jack.”

They eat in silence for another minute until John, doing his best impression of Hester’s oh-so-innocent tone whenever she brings up Alex, asks, “So… Maria?”

Hester blushes. “Oh, shut up! You’ve spent the last _week_ swooning over - over your date, don’t think I’ve forgotten that.” John can hear where she catches herself about to say “Alex” before deciding better of it; everyone else is currently in a room adjacent to them.

“Now hold on a minute,” he protests, “who said anything about swooning?”

“Jack!” Henry calls. “Your ride is here!”

“Already?” John checks his phone. 6:27 PM.

“Have fun swooning!” Hester chirps brightly.

John clutches his chest in mock pain at the obvious libel, then grabs his jacket and heads out the door.

Ned rolls down the window and pokes his head out. “So we’re a bit early, but that’s a recent development. Up until a few minutes ago, we were going to be late because this guy,” he jerks a thumb towards the backseat, “was writing and lost track of time.”

“What made you early?” John asks, opening the side door?”

“He freaked out and started speeding,” Alex answers cheekily. For reasons that John does not know or understand but definitely has no problems with, Alex is wearing thick-framed black glasses.

“You’re, uh - you…” John gestures vaguely at his face as he sits down and closes the door, not looking away from Alex.

“Oh.” Alex grins sheepishly. “I couldn’t find my contacts and we ran out of time for me to look for them.”

John fumbles for his seatbelt. “You look - _they_ , uh, they look good on - on you.” Okay, so maybe Hester has a point about swooning, but _dammit_ does the smile he gets in response make it worth it.

“Up-bup-bup!” Ned interrupts. “No flirting. This is a strictly No Romance car. Now strap in, kids, because either this app knows its way around traffic and new developments, or we’re about to get hopelessly lost.”

They manage to get to the Schuylers without getting too turned around. Then they wait outside for 10 minutes until John, motivated mostly by a desire to get out of the car and escape Ned’s comments about the No Flirting rule, volunteers to go in and see if the girls know they’re there and/or are ready yet.

The girl who answers the door when he rings the doorbell has eyes so dark brown they’re almost black, and such a striking resemblance to Angelica and Peggy that there’s no way she’s not their sister.

“Yes?” Similar voice, too.

“Uh, hi. I’m John, Angelica’s and Peggy’s friend. Are they ready to go?”

She smiles. “Any minute now. Do you want to come in?”

John hesitates, then motions to the car that he’ll be back in a minute and steps inside. In the dark, it had been hard to tell much about the house, but now that he’s inside, he can tell it’s nice. Really nice. He’d had a vague inkling that the Schuylers are a wealthy family, but this somehow still surprises him.

“Um, sorry, can I - can I just ask,” the girl starts, “John… Laurens?”

John raises his eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. Do I - have we met?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “No, I go to school with your sister. Hester? My name’s Elizabeth, by the way.”

“Oh!” First Alex, now Elizabeth. Apparently he and Hester look more alike than he’d realized. “Well, nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”

“Jackie!” Peggy calls from the top of the stairs. “So sorry we’re late, Angelica tried to style her hair.”

Angelica swats her arm as they start descending the stairs. “Don’t make this out to be _my_ fault, Ms. Amateur Makeup Guru.”

The first thing John notices, looking over toward their voices, is a mark on the banister that strikes him as out of place and kind of reminds him of the knife mark Hester accidentally put in their old dining room table. The second thing he notices is that both Angelica and Peggy are wearing appropriately themed dresses for a Valentine’s dance, Angelica in a reddish-pink dress that’s somehow both casual and elegant, and Peggy in a knee-length dress with a yellow bodice and colorful hearts all over the white skirt.

Peggy laughs in response to Angelica’s retort and skips the rest of the way down the stairs. She swings open the door and gestures outside. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Angelica agrees. “‘Night Betsey.”

“Goodnight,” Elizabeth replies, already leaving the room.

“Bye, Lizzie!” Peggy calls after her. “Don’t die while we’re gone!”

“Welp, there go my plans!”

The door swings shut behind them, and Peggy jogs toward the car yelling, “Shotgun!”

“Mses. Schuyler,” Alex greets as they pile into the car. “You look wonderful, as usual.”

“And you look like a hipster,” Angelica returns. “The glasses and the bowtie don’t really surprise me, but suspenders, too? Really?”

“I like the suspenders,” John offers without thinking about it.

Ned slams his hand against the wheel. “No Romance!”

“Wow,” Peggy comments. “I could _hear_ the capital letters.”

They pull up to the school at 7:07 with Alex complaining that Ned was willing to speed on the way to John’s house but not on the way to the school, and Ned defending the choice by pointing out that John lives in one of those neighborhoods full of old people who probably never drive anywhere after 6:00 PM, which is actually mostly accurate.

“We’re only 7 minutes late,” Peggy soothes. “I doubt the dance is going to start before 7:15 anyway.”

Ned maneuvers into a parking spot and stops the car. “It’s not like we’re the only ones just getting here.”

He’s right. A couple more cars roll past them as they get out and start heading toward the entrance. Some of them John recognizes from after school, but others must belong to kids who usually take the bus.

“Where’s the dance supposed to be, again?” Ned asks.

John shrugs his jacket off as they make their way indoors. “The gym, I think.”

“Oh yay,” Angelica deadpans. “I love it when dances smell like sweat.”

“Sweat, Axe Body Spray, and too much perfume,” Peggy adds, “and it’s not like it wasn’t going to anyway.”

* * *

The first thing to strike John as they enter the gym, after hanging up their jackets outside, is the startling amount of hearts. Whoever decorated the gym really put the effort in, because there are cardioids (no, okay, even in his head, “cardioids” sounds pretentious) _everywhere_ : the tables, the walls, the rafters, the people. Nowhere is safe.

“This is…” Peggy starts.

“Excessive?” Angelica fills in.

“Wonderful,” Peggy corrects.

“Strange mix of the two,” Ned concludes. “Wait, no, I’m sorry Angelica, I’m going to have to completely agree with Peggy, because that right there is a chocolate fountain.”

“Oh, score!” Peggy squeals, dragging Ned off to dip any number of things into the melted chocolate. John’s definitely going to have to check that out at some point tonight.

“You know,” Alex muses as Angelica locates a group of friends and goes off to socialize, “depending on your source, the stereotypical heart shape is theoretically supposed to look like the shape two heads make when they kiss.” He smirks. “And more in the spirit of Ned’s No Romance rule - which by the way, he’s only allowed to call in the car - it also may be fashioned to look like a butt.”

A heart-shaped sequin flutters down from the ceiling and lands on John’s nose. “What a lovely thought to have at this exact moment.”

Alex laughs and reaches up to brush the sequin off of John’s nose. The height difference is just a little too much for the move to be read as purely casual, but, John reminds himself with a fluttering feeling in his stomach, he’s allowed to translate it as romantic. After all, Alex _did_ ask him out to the Valentine’s Day dance.

Then again, this isn’t necessarily a date. The thought has been flitting around John’s head since Wednesday that this could be a just-going-as-friends thing. Alex had seemed nervous when he was asking, but maybe John had just misread that. Maybe this is entirely platonic, and this is just how Alex interacts with his friends, and John is the creepy one for laughing back too warmly as Alex flashes another wonderful smile.

(But then, the thought also crosses his mind that maybe that’s all a bit too much of a reach to be likely. Maybe this really _is_ a date. Maybe, maybe, maybe.)

John’s phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him out of his thoughts and also reminding him that he was probably staring dreamily at Alex while he was zoning out, because why the fuck wouldn’t he. Shit. He digs out the the phone, brushing past the box on the way down and making a mental note to find Maria later.

**[Text from: Forehead Guy]** r u coming 2nite?  
 **[Text from: Forehead Guy]** 2 the dance i mean

**[Text to: Forehead Guy]** Already here.

He switches his phone to silent and slips it back into his pocket. Date or no, he’d rather not be distracted from spending time with Alex.

“Wanna go get some food?” he offers.

Alex smiles back at him. John will never grow tired of that smile and those bright, blue-violet eyes. “Absolutely.”

Food, as it turns out, is a bit of a hodge-podge. It was unclear going into the event whether or not anything constituting as dinner would be served, and apparently whoever was in charge of catering had as much of an idea as anyone else. There’s some chicken, blintzes, and pasta (also maybe salad?) placed seemingly at random around the tables, as if to satisfy anyone who didn’t eat before coming without distracting from the main course: dessert. John gets the same sneaking suspicion he got from the decorations that someone went out and bought everything Valentine’s-themed they could get their hands on.

Alex picks up a bowl sitting by some of the semi-dinner food and peers, suspicious, at its contents.

“I think this is heart of palm,” he decides, “and I am having so many mixed emotions right now about whoever is in charge of catering.”

John leans over his shoulder to get a better look. “Oh jeez. I think you’re right.”

“I mean, it’s _heart_ -ly an issue,” Alex continues, and John is close enough to feel those (adorable, why are they attractive, this is ridiculous) glasses brush against the side of his face as Alex turns marginally toward him with a self-congratulatory smirk.

John groans at the pun, but can’t help the tug of a smile at the corner of his lips. “Put the bowl down, Alex,” he says, and then adds (not without a twinge of disappointment in himself), “It’s disheartening.”

Alex turns to actually look at John at that, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, come on, Laurens, how else am I supposed to get pumped up? It’s a valve-uable asset.”

On a normal basis, John would probably have to take a moment to compose himself, because that was, like, three puns all in one go, good lord Alex. As it is, Alex turning around has brought their faces closer together than John knows how to deal with. He scrambles mentally to focus on something, anything else, eventually landing on the music playing in the background.

“Do - do you, uh, do you wanna, uh, dance? Or something?” he stammers, shuffling backward and praying that the pinkish lighting in the gym masks how red his face is turning. “I - I mean, after we eat.”

Alex sets down the bowl, still smiling and not breaking eye contact (which, since John is standing somewhat behind him and not leaning over all that much, can’t be a very comfortable angle.) “I’m not that hungry. Food can wait.” He blinks, then frowns in the general direction of the speakers. “Um, actually, god no, not to this song.”

John furrows his brow. He recognizes the song by tune, but it’s one of those songs where the lyrics blend together unless you’re really paying attention, so the only words he knows are “ _hey hey hey_.” Besides not fully knowing how he’d dance to it (he’s not all that great at General Party Dancing), he’s not sure why Alex finds it so objectionable.

“Why not?” he asks, genuinely curious. “What’s wrong with it?”

Alex turns fully around and scowls, less at John specifically, and more at the general existence of the song. “Seriously? Have you actually listened to it?”

John takes a second to do so. He might be wrong, but he thinks he hears the line, “ _You wanna hug me/What rhymes with hug me_.”

“Well it sounds kind of weirdly written, I guess, but I don’t -”

“It’s about rape,” Alex interjects. “Or, at least, rape culture. The entire song is about how this asshole ‘knows’ that girls want him even though they are very clearly saying otherwise. I mean - no, hold on, listen to this.” He points at the ceiling (which is not where the speakers are, but John gets the point) as the song starts repeating the phrase “ _I know you want it_.”

John blinks. “...wow. I - I had no idea. That’s - oh jeez, this is just getting creepier.”

“Right?” Alex lowers his hand. “But we can totally dance in, like, what, five seconds? It’s almost over.”

Sure enough, the next songs starts up shortly afterward, which is good, because John kept listening to the lyrics until the end of the last song, and he’s not sure how he never noticed how sketchy they are. Alex immediately brightens up as the new song starts.

“Oh, I love this one!” he enthuses, grabbing John’s hand and tugging him toward the dance floor.

“ _Lately, I’ve been, I’ve been losing sleep_ ,” croons the voice through the speakers, “ _dreaming about the things that we could be_.”

Dancing with Alex is nothing like dancing with Martha. Well, almost nothing like it. There’s still that atmosphere of pleasant excitement, but with Alex it’s giddier and just… more. John doesn’t know how to explain it. Maybe part of it is that there’s no specific dance going on. They’re not going through the steps of a modified swing, or improvising on a tango, or honestly doing anything that John can classify as a specific Thing. There’s a lot of spinning, and a lot of Alex bouncing, and they’re holding hands, which makes it pretty difficult to focus on the details. The music is throbbing through the speakers so loud John can feel the bass in his chest, which is masking the fact that his heart is probably hammering right now. Watching Alex really get into the song, singing along to some of the lyrics with his nose crinkling as he smiles at John and the pinkish light making his freckles stand out, is exhilarating.

“ _Take that money, watch it burn, sink in the river, the lessons I’ve learned_ …”

Alex finally stops spinning them around, but keeps the grin. He’s standing pretty close to John, which is partially because the dance floor is kind of crowded, but also because… he wants to? Presumably? Because this might be a date? Ugh, John needs to stop overthinking this.

“So,” Alex says, “now might be a good time to tell you that I don’t, strictly speaking, know how to dance.”

John lets an impulse win over and gives Alex’s hand a little squeeze. “Hey, spinning and bouncing are big parts of dancing. I’d say it counts.”

There’s some excited commotion from the crowd as the next song starts (John’s heard it on the radio, and he’s not at all sure, but he thinks it might be One Direction or something). Alex takes advantage of the fact that he hasn’t let go of John’s hand yet to start gently guiding him back toward the food.

“I’m actually kind of dizzy now,” he explains sheepishly. “Also, we should check out the chocolate fountain before people start dipping weird things into it.”

“Oh?” John prompts, letting himself be led away from the growing crowd excitedly screaming “Best Song Ever.”

“You know, various body parts, small birds…” Alex smiles back at John like he’s just made a funny joke, which John can’t say he got, especially since he’d been preoccupied wondering which was the more concerning part of that statement.

“Uh. Small birds?”

Alex’s smile falters a little. He shrugs. “It’s, um, it’s a Tumblr thing. Never mind.”

John doesn’t question it. He’s learned enough tangentially from Hester’s Tumblr account (which she pretends doesn’t exist) to know that it’s better not to ask.

“Well,” he says, “if I see any feathers, I’ll let you know.”

No one’s put any small birds anywhere near the chocolate, as far as John can tell, but Alex was close with the “various body parts” bit. By the time they make their way to the table, Cat and a group of other Freshmen (along with a senior or two) are gathered around the gushing chocolate, dipping in various things (hearts of palm, noodles, fingers) and daring each other to eat it before giving up in a matter of seconds, if that, and eating it themselves (not that anyone’s eating fingers, just licking chocolate off of them). It’s like watching a science experiment conducted by a bunch of potheads.

John’s about to ask if Alex still wants anything to do with the chocolate fountain when one of the seniors looks up, sees Alex, and grins.

“Hammy!” he calls, excitedly waving him over.

“Ricky!” Alex calls back, just as excited, and starts walking towards him before he realizes he’s still holding John’s hand (which John definitely doesn’t mind) and is thus tugging John along with him (which John does kind of mind a little).

Alex apologizes and lets go of John’s hand, and Ricky nudges past the Freshmen to come talk to them. Well, probably just to Alex, since John has no idea who this guy is.

“How’ve you been, buddy, I haven’t seen you all week,” he says as he finally makes his way past the crowd of Pothead Scientists.

John might be imagining it, but he thinks Alex’s eyes flick over to him before settling back on Ricky. “I’ve been great.”

“Good!” Ricky claps his hands together and clasps everything but the thumb and index fingers, making something of a hand-gun. He taps the barrel against his mouth. “Listen,” he says, “uh, Herc says he needs you? He also says ‘no context’ and ‘tell John I said hi,’ so…” He points the barrel at John. “I assume that’s you?”

John nods, confused.

“Hercules says ‘Hi,’” Ricky tells him.

This does nothing to abate John’s confusion.

“Shit,” Alex mutters. He digs into his pockets and comes up with a crumpled piece of paper, which he thrusts at Ricky. “Hold this. If anyone asks, say it’s mine, but make it sound like you’re lying.” He turns to John. “I’m so sorry, and I can’t even promise an explanation later because… well, have you met Hercules?”

“I don’t know what’s going on right now,” John says honestly, “but as far as I know I haven’t met any mythological figures recently.”

Ricky sticks the paper in his pocket. “Bleachers.”

“I’ll introduce you later!” Alex calls over his shoulder, jogging away.

John blinks, wondering how he ended up feeling quite this lost. It’s a little past the level of confusion one generally prepares for when going to school dances, but then again, only a little. “What just happened?”

“A rising fashionisto just stole your date to spy on some teachers for reasons he’ll probably claim are justice, and I did nothing to stop any of it because we all need a little chaos in our lives. By the way, I’m Ricky Meade. Nice to meet you.”

* * *

Ricky is nice and is interesting to talk to, but is also easily distracted by the group of Pothead Scientists who drag him away and convince him to eat something chocolate-covered and oddly shaped that John doesn’t feel like investigating. So the conversation doesn’t last long.

It’s not until Alex is gone and John is wandering around aimlessly trying to figure out what to do with himself that he remembers the box in his pocket and his promise to Hester. He scans the room, looking for Maria, and eventually finds her talking with Dolley and Tom. He doesn’t want to interrupt the conversation, but he figures he’ll just make his way over and lurk around the edges until he sees an opening.

He shouldn’t have worried.

“John!” Tom calls the second his eyes land on John. “You fuckin’ war hero! Dude, get over here!”

“Uh. Context?” John requests, coming to stand next to Dolley.

“Maria was just regaling us with stories of your heroics,” she explains. “Well, mostly of your siblings’ heroics. But you were featured briefly.”

“NERF battle,” Maria says, looking sheepish. Sheepish is not a look he’s used to on her.

“Ah,” says John. He digs into his pocket and produces the box. “Well, uh, speaking of my siblings. Here.” He hands the box to Maria. “Hester wanted me to give this to you. She said she saw it in a thrift shop and thought of you.”

Maria raises her eyebrows in surprise and claims the box. She opens it carefully, angled away from the group like it’s a secret treasure meant only for her. John wonders, suddenly, if he should have waited to give Maria the box until he could catch her alone. But it’s too late now, and Maria seems too wrapped up in the box to care.

It takes a second or so to realize that, rather than just staring at the contents of the box, Maria is reading something. After a minute, she snaps the box shut with a curious smile of her face and slips it into a pocket in her skirt. (John makes a silent note of appreciation; he knows good dresses with usable pockets are few and far between.)

“Thanks, Jackie,” she says. Then she side-eyes Dolley and mouths something that could either be “Worry-O” or “We’re a go,” neither of which particularly make sense to John, but whatever it is seems to mean something to Dolley, whose eyes widen as she mouths a silent “Oh.”

“We’re texting Lizzie,” she tells Maria, grabbing her arm and guiding her towards the restrooms.

“What, now? Okay, now, I guess. Um, talk to you later Tom, Jackie, bye!”

And with that, they’re gone, leaving John and Tom standing in mutual confusion, blinking after them. John glances at Tom.

Tom shrugs. “Not a clue, dude.”

In the awkward silence that follows, John recognizes Neon Trees “Everybody Talks” playing in the background. Tom bops along absently for a moment, looking like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Or, probably more accurately, he already knows what he wants to say and is trying to figure out how to say it.

“ _I found out that everybody talks, everybody talks, everybody talks. It started with a whisper!_ ”

“So,” Tom says finally. “You and Alex, huh?”

John wishes suddenly that he’d gotten some soda or something before coming over here, just so he had something to do with his hands. “Uh, yeah. Well, I mean - I think so.”

“You think so,” Tom repeats. “Okay. Cool. And, ah, this is a recent development?”

And then it clicks. John and Tom haven’t had much of a chance to talk in the past week, since Tom has been busy or absent almost non-stop, so from Tom’s perspective, the whole Whatever It Is with Alex is functionally happening immediately after the breakup with Martha. Maybe not even after. Maybe overlapping.

“I didn’t - I wasn’t cheating on Martha, if that’s what you’re asking.” If it were anyone else, John would think he was reading too much into the question, but this is Tom, who never says anything without implying some added commentary.

“No, I -” Tom tips his head to the side in acknowledgment, “well, I was kind of asking that. But mostly I meant, did she know you didn’t like her?”

“I do like her,” John says stubbornly.

“You know what I mean.”

He did know, of course. But it irks him a little, for a reason he can’t quite place, that Tom so readily guesses that the relationship with Martha was a sham. He guesses right, but it still feels… off-putting.

“Yeah. She knew.” He laughs a little, but it comes out forced. It’s starting to fall into place why Tom’s assumption makes him so uncomfortable. “That obvious, huh?”

“Well you don’t exactly seem too hung up about the breakup,” Tom answers, calmly like he isn’t kind of sending John into a panic about coming across as very obviously gay, which doesn’t exactly matter at school anymore, since the Whatever It Is with Alex is happening, but at home, that’s where it’s a problem, that’s where he can’t risk - “Dude, are you okay?”

If staring fixedly at his shoes and desperately trying to swallow down a lump of anxiety in his throat counts as okay, then yes, John is doing just dandy, thank you for asking. “Yeah,” he manages, pushing past how tight his voice sounds. “Fine. I just…” he takes a deep breath, looks up. “I never, uh, actually got a chance to - to come out to you? And now I’m, I’m kind of out to everyone, aren’t I.”

“ _Never thought I’d live to see the day, when everybody’s words got in the way._ ”

Tom pauses, then shrugs. “Nah. Only to the people paying attention. I hate to break it to you buddy, but the chocolate fountain is more interesting than your personal soap opera.” He jerks a thumb toward the speakers. “Complete-with-soundtrack though it may be,” he adds.

John smirks. “Thanks, Tom.”

Tom, unfortunately, is not done talking. “Although honestly, I’m kind of surprised it was Alex and not Francis.” And now John is glad he doesn’t have a drink, because he’d have choked on it. Judging by Tom’s bemused grin, it shows. “You _are_ over that crush, aren’t you?”

“Who said I had a crush on him?” John sputters.

“Your face, right now,” Tom shoots back. “Also your weird obsession with him back in December. And your face back then, too, for that matter. You were like a walking tomato, I don’t think I ever saw you _not_ blush around him.”

John groans and buries his face in his hands.

“And I’m willing to bet you’re the same way around Alex,” Tom continues. “If by ‘I think it’s a thing’ you mean ‘I’m too chicken to call this a date,’ I swear I’m calling bullshit, dude.”

There’s no reason John should find this so funny. Tom has just managed to voice about half of the insecurities that John’s mind has been flashing through all night, but somehow, the way he says it, casual and teasing and out in the open, has John chuckling despite himself. He laces his fingers behind his head. “And how’s your date with Dolley going?”

“Ah.” Tom raises a finger. “Key difference there, I’m not desperately pining. Also, it’s going wonderfully, thanks for asking.”

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?”

Tom waves a hand. “Well it’s a friend date, obviously. A friend date where I shower her with cheesy pickup lines the entire night and she pretends to hate it. Because if we’re not making real couples look like they aren’t being cute enough, what are we even doing with our lives?”

John starts to say something, and it’s such a useless small-talk sort of something that he doesn’t even remember what it was going to be when he’s suddenly interrupted by Jack darting past, shoving something at him that he instinctively catches, telling him, “Hold that, thanks!” and dashing away.

“Jack!” someone calls out in aggravation.

John processes two things at about the same time: Ben, with one brightly colored sock clearly visible thanks to a lack of shoe, coming to a skidding halt next to John and Tom, and the fact that the object in John’s hands appears to be Ben’s other shoe.

“What -” Tom starts.

“I don’t know!” Ben growls, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I don’t know, okay? John, can I have my shoe?”

John dutifully hands it over. “Can I get- get, uh, any sort of explanation? At all?”

Ben stoops down to shove his foot into the shoe. “I don’t. Fucking. Know. It was probably supposed to be a distraction or something, I don’t - this only makes marginally more sense to me than to you, okay?”

“A distraction from…?” Tom prompts.

Ben stands up plants his hands on his hips, muscles working in his jaw and nose flaring as he takes a deep breath. If John had to guess, he’s in the middle of a load of chaos and is trying to step back and figure out what the hell is going on. “Arny stole my phone.”

“Arny, like, teacher’s pet Arny?” Tom checks.

“Do you know another Arny?”

“I don’t know any Arny,” John cuts in. “Who are we talking about?”

“Benedict Arnold,” Tom explains. “He’s in my math class, he’s kind of a dick. Ben, I hate to break this to you, but he’s probably sending weird-ass texts to half your contacts list by now.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t unlocked when he got his hands on it. Thank the lord, I switched it off right before he grabbed it.”

“Why’d he take it?” John asks.

“Because he’s an asshole?” Ben shrugs helplessly. “Because - because maybe he thought I was here with Jack, and he saw me texting, um - I dunno, maybe he and Jack had this planned from the start, just to mess with me. Is that paranoid?” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Aaauuugh, fuck my life.”

“Do you just not usually curse this much because you hang around Nathan?” Tom checks. “Or is this really all that bad?”

Ben stares at his shoes for a moment, looking as though he’s not sure what the answer is himself. “I’m gonna go get my phone back,” he says finally. He looks up to survey the room, presumably to find Arny, then glances behind John’s shoulder. “Incoming.”

He jogs off before John can ask what he means, but it must have some significance to Tom, who looks the same direction, says, “Oh geez, suddenly I have to go,” and runs after Ben, hissing something that sounds an awful lot like, “Wasn’t Joe gonna talk him out of it? Ben!”

The sound of cheerful music starting up in the background isn’t doing anything to stop John from feeling like tonight is uncomfortably reminiscent of a TV drama, one in which he has unwittingly stumbled into the role of the confused secondary character who gets left standing awkwardly as the scene changes.

“ _I hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums_ ,” Ke$ha blasts over the speakers. “ _Oh what a shame that you came here with someone_.”

John takes a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever latest twist the night’s about to shove at him. Then he turns around to check what Ben and Tom were looking at and finds Francis standing by the door, nervously scanning the room. Francis’s eyes meet his.

It takes about the same amount of time for Francis to cross the room to meet him as it does for John to give up trying to figure out what could possibly have warranted Tom’s reaction and decide, instead, to just pretend he isn’t friends with a bunch of drama queens.

“John!” Francis greets with a bright tone that in no way matches the still-nervous expression on his face. He looks like he was just about as unclear on what ‘semi-formal’ meant as John was, if the dark polo and green tie paired with khaki pants just a shade too large have anything to say about it. His hair is tied back, with chunks toward the front coming loose and resting around his face. He looks somewhere between good and frazzled.

“Hey, Francis,” John says. He wants to ask if Francis is okay, but also thinks he’s reached his quota for ‘other people’s drama’ today, so instead settles on, “Uh, how’s it going?”

Francis bounces on the balls of his feet. “It’s, uh, it’s going fine. Life, life is going - um, I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m doing okay.” John’s curiosity finally wins out over his complete lack of desire to deal with any new curveballs. “Hey, uh, is everything okay?”

“Peachy!” Francis grimaces. “I don’t know why I said that, I’m sorry, that was weird.”

“Okay…” John says uncertainly.

“Hey, so,” Francis starts, taking a deep breath, “I was just wondering if, maybe you, I dunno, maybe we could -” he falters, looks at something behind John. “Oh. Um. Hi, Alex.”

“Francis,” Alex nods, coming up to them. He turns to John. “Sorry ‘bout that, Laurens. Hercules can be - well, he’s a character. I’ll introduce you guys sometime. But I promise he’s done with me for today.” He glances back at Francis. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Uh. Are you guys here… together?” Francis asks cautiously.

John sighs, fully sure he’s about to have the exact same conversation he had with Tom all over again, until he remembers, wait, Francis knows the thing with Martha wasn’t a real thing. So either John’s imagining the hurt and confusion in his eyes, which, come to think of it, doesn’t exactly fit the kind of accusation he was expecting anyway, or…

Oh.

Oh, no, come on.

Oh fuck this. John isn’t even going to consider that. That’s not even wishful thinking, since he’s over Francis, that’s just finding drama where there isn’t any. Because there can’t be. This is absolutely ridiculous.

“Yeah,” Alex says, like it’s obvious, like this isn’t going to be new ammunition for John’s brain to use in its constant musings on whether or not this is a date.

“Oh,” Francis says tightly. “No. You’re not interrupting anything.” And with that, he slinks back off into the sidelines.

Yes, it’s absolutely ridiculous, but at the same time, it’s uncomfortably plausible that Francis was about to ask John out.

Jesus, John’s life is a mess.

It isn’t until Alex nudges him gently that John realizes he’s been frowning into thin air. “I’m not dizzy anymore, if you’re up for more dancing.”

A mess. But it has its highlights.

* * *

The night is drawing to a close when the speakers take a break from endless pop songs and turn to slow dance music.

John and Alex spent the last hour or so alternately on the dance floor and snacking absently while chatting on the sidelines. Alex has a seemingly neverending list of things he could talk about forever, and John is happy to indulge. He loves the way Alex’s eyes light up when he’s interested in something, the way he’ll talk with his hands when he really gets into the topic and will flash John a dazzling smile every time John chips in with a good comment. Honestly, he just loves hanging out with Alex in general.

Alex looks over at the speakers as he finishes up a joke about how different historical figures like William Shakespeare and Victor Hugo are from how people imagine them. He checks his watch. “Oh, wow. This is probably the last song.”

“Already?” John asks.

“It’s nearly midnight.”

John blinks. “…already?”

Alex laughs. “One last dance?” he offers. “I can show you my other signature dance move: moving-around-vaguely-because-spinning-and-jumping-doesn’t-really-work.”

“Well,” John chuckles, “how could I say no to an opportunity like that?”

“ _It’s late in the evening_ ,” Eric Clapton sings over the speakers. “ _She’s wondering what clothes to wear_.” It’s an old song, and it somehow fits exactly into the any ideas John might have had about a stereotypical slow song.

He rests one hand on Alex’s waist. “Here. I think moving around vaguely is pretty much the idea.”

“Oh, good.” Alex smiles. He lets John take one of his hands and rests the other on John’s shoulder. They sway in time with the music, and John lets himself stop worrying, if only just this once, if he’s making this out to be more romantic than it really is.

“ _Yes _,” Clapton tells his nameless partner, “ _I feel wonderful tonight_.”__

__John couldn’t agree more._ _

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any historical figures (preferably born in the the 1750's) who you want me to include, or have an anecdotal story from the late 18th or early 19th century that you like, please let me know!
> 
> Ideas for the story are welcome. We're in for a long haul, folks, and I have a story outline that needs some beef.


End file.
